A WOMAN'S HEART
by
JoAnn Ross


JoAnn Ross always delivers "a moving story with marvelous
characters."

--Romantic Times

ISBN 1-55166-461-5

Advance Praise for A WOMAN'S HEART

by JoAnn Ross

"JoAnn Ross masterfully paints a picture of a magical, mystical land.
With delightful touches of folklore storytelling.  Ms.  Ross tells a
tale that delivers laughter.  tears and so much joy..."

-Romantic Times

"Filled with warmth and wisdom and magic, A Woman's Heart is sure to
appeal to readers who love deeply moving romance, children, relatives,
horses, big dogs and Irish charm."

-Antoinette Stockenberg.  best selling author of Dream a little Dream

"A Woman's Heart will find a place in every fan's heart, as it is an
extraordinary tale that will charm the audience.  This is one time the
luck of the Irish will smile on every reader."

-Affiaire de Coeur

"A Woman's Heart is an unforgettable book that will sweep you away to a
magical land where anything can happen.  Her words bring rich, powerful
characters to life in a delightful world that seamlessly blends romance
with fantasy."

-The Romance Reviewer

"The beauty of the people is what kept me reading this excellent--in
every way--novel.  If you're not already a JoAnn Ross fan, you will be
after reading A Woman's Heart."

-Rendezvous

"A Woman's Heart is ... a warm and winning story of the redemptive
power of love."

-The Romance Reader

"A Woman's Heart blends elements from legends within a contemporary
story line to produce a brilliant novel.  JoAnn Ross presents her
readers with a bouquet of four leaf clovers...."

-Painted Rock Reviews

Also available from MIRA Books and JoAnn ROSS

LEGACY OF LIES

DUSK FIRE

STORMY COURTSHIP

CONFESSIONS

TEMPTING FATE

SOUTHERN COMFORTS

BAIT AND SWITCH

NO REGRETS

A WOMAN'S HEART

BY JOANN ROSS

A WOMAN'S HEART

Copyright C 1998 by JoAnn Ross.

All rights reserved.  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or her' after
invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording.  or in any
information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the
written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road,
Don Mills.  Ontario, Canada M3B 3H0.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination
of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the
same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired by any
individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure
invention.

MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and
registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States patent
and Trademark Office and in other countries.

Printed In U.S.A.

To my agent, Damaris Rowland, who believed in this story from
conception.

To all my pals who kept me writing during the tough times-especially
the wonderfully supportive members of RWA On-Line; the Romance Group on
AOL, who provided a place to hide out; the wise and witty Stars, who've
come to mean so much to me; and most particularly, patty Gardner Evans,
who always knows exactly when to let me whine.

To my son, Patrick, his wife, lisa, and Malisa-the-Wonder-Toddler, a
brilliant ray of sunshine who can brighten even the darkest of days.

And last, but certainly not least, to my beloved Jay, who changed my
life that fateful morning so long ago and continues to make every day
an adventure.

Prologue

Unanswered Prayers

It was twilight, that mystical time when the world seems suspended
between day and night.  The remote lake, carved by glaciers into the
surrounding folded green hills, glimmered with the reflection of the
ruins of the twelfth-century castle that had given the Irish town of
Castlelough its name.

As the sun sank lower and lower in the cloud-scudded sky, six-year-old
Rory Fitzpatrick sat in his secret wishing place and related the events
of the day to his best friend.

"Johnny Murphy stole communion hosts.  And not just ordinary bread
ones, either, but the special holy hosts in the tabernacle that were
already blessed.  You know, the ones Father O'Malley takes to
shut-ins.

"And Johnny even passed them out on the playground.  A lot of kids who
haven't had their first communion yet and didn't know better ate them.
But I didn't."

The Lady didn't answer.  She never did.  But Rory sensed her unspoken
approval.

"He got in a lot of trouble.  Sister Mary Patrick paddled him, and he's
not going to be allowed to go on the father-and-son trek."

He sighed, drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his thin arms
around them.  Across the reed-fringed lake, the stone castle seemed to
brood in the gloaming.

"I think I'm going to pretend to get sick that day.

Father O'Malley says you don't need a da to go, and Cousin Jamie says I
can share his, but it's not the same thing.  And besides, his da's
drunk a lot.  And mean even when he's not.  So I wouldn't want to be
sharing him, anyway."

Rory put his chin on his bent knees and looked out over the darkening
blue water.  "I wish I had a father."

Beside him, Maeve, the gray, white and black Irish wolfhound his aunt
Kate had given him, whimpered.  Rory might have thought she was feeling
sorry for him, but the dog whined all the time.  His mother said poor
Maeve was the most fearful beast ever born in all Ireland.  Or probably
anywhere else, for that matter.  Rory figured she was probably right.
Which was why it was strange she'd never seemed afraid of the Lady.

"Great-grandma Fionna says that God always answers our prayers.  But
you know how I've been praying forever.  Ever since I was a little kid.
And Aunt Kate gave me a special rock she said is just like one the
druids used for making magic-" he pulled the rune with the marks
scratched into its surface from the pocket of his jeans and showed it
to her "-but I still don't have a da."

Another sigh.  "If I had a da, maybe Mam would stop crying."

The Lady's bright eyes, which were exactly the color of Rory's favorite
aggie marble, asked a silent question.

"Oh, she never cries when anyone's around," he said quickly.  "But
sometimes, late at night, when I have to get up to go to the bathroom,
I hear her.  I think she's worried she's going to have to take the job
working for that businessman in Galway."

He'd been telling the Lady all about this for a month.  A month during
which his mother had been pretending nothing was wrong.

The mountains were changing colors in the shifting light.  Rory knew if
he didn't get home soon, she'd worry.

And didn't his Mam already have cares enough without having to wonder
where he was always taking off to?  He could practically hear his aunt
Mary scolding.

"If we had a father," he said to the Lady, "we'd have more money.  And
then we wouldn't have to leave Castlelough."  And you.  The unspoken
words hung suspended on the soft moist air between them.

"Grandfather rented a room to one of the Americans who are coming to
Castlelough tomorrow," he reminded her unnecessarily.

The Lady never forgot anything Rory told her.  That was only one of the
reasons she was his best friend.  Another was that he could share
anything and everything with her.  Things he couldn't even share with
his mother.

"The American is paying a lot.  Maybe it'll be enough."

Rory's throat closed up the way it always did whenever he thought about
having to move away from the farm.  He swallowed painfully.  Maeve
nudged his hand, coaxing it onto her huge head; Rory absently stroked
her while he battled with his unruly feelings.

"I guess you'll be staying out of sight while the Americans are here."
As much as the family needed the money, Rory hated this idea.

The Lady slowly nodded her head.  Although it could have been a trick
of the light reflecting off the water, Rory thought he saw the shimmer
of tears in her gentle golden eyes.  It made him want to cry himself.

"It's only a month."  It seemed like forever.  "And after they're gone,
I'll come back."  If he wasn't living in Galway by then.

Rory wiped his burning eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.  He hated
the way his voice, all thin and shaky, sounded just like some stupid
crybaby.

"I'll come back."  He made his voice stronger, as if saying the words
out loud could make them true.  Beside him, Maeve thumped her tail.

Of course you will.

Rory's blue eyes widened with surprise.  It was the first time the Lady
had ever spoken to him!  Oh, the words weren't really out loud, they
were inside his head, but he heard them just the same.

The sun was setting behind the mountain in a blinding flare of ruby
light.  It made the Lady's green scales glitter like emeralds.  His
spirits lifted, his hopes renewed, Rory watched as the ancient lake
creature gave one last flick of her tail, then disappeared beneath the
cobalt water.

Chapter One

Nora

The news came to Castlelough as if riding on wisps of early-morning
fog, winding its way from Donal's gift shop on the tidy medieval
square, to The Irish Rose pub on Gaol Road, to Molly Lee's
Confectionery at the top of the ancient steps, from which visitors made
a breath-stealing descent down the towering limestone cliffs to the
sea.

From schoolyard to church to cottage to manor house to the post
office-where Elizabeth Murphy was quick to announce whenever another
red, white and blue overnight express letter arrived from America--the
question was always the same:

"Did you hear?  The movie people are coming."

By the time Nora Fitzpatrick arrived in the village on the day the
movie people were due to arrive, the whispers and murmurs had risen to
a near clamor.

Although the sunshine yellow gorse was blooming vividly in the
hedgerows and the taste of late spring rode faintly on the soft wet sea
air, the day had turned chilly and threatening.

Nora dropped into O'Neill's Chicken and Chips for a cup of tea, to warm
up after her long ride from the farm, and watched the oldest O'Neill
daughter flirt with the handsome boy delivering an order of canned
lemonade.  Feeling a great deal older than her twenty-five years, Nora
left them merrily laughing at some joke the boy had made.

As she crossed the stone bridge over a river rushing its way toward the
Atlantic, it occurred to her she'd been jealous of eighteen-year-old
Brenda O'Neill.

"Not jealous," she amended out loud.  "Perhaps just a wee bit envious."
The sight of the carefree couple had brought back thoughts of when her
husband, Conor, had been courting her.  She sighed at the memory, which
was both pleasing and sad at the same time.

Conor Fitzpatrick, who'd grown up on the neighboring farm, had matured
into a man as handsome and bold as an ancient king.  Nora doubted any
woman would have been able to resist falling in love with him.  After
spending time on the continent, he'd literally burst back into her life
and eased the grief she'd been suffering so at the time.  And for that
she'd always love him.

She pushed her bicycle up the steep narrow cobblestone street.  In the
distance she could see the lake, carved out by a glacier thousands of
years ago, limpid against mountains tipped with silvery fog.  On the
far bank a pre-Christian ring of stones appeared to be silently
awaiting a solstice ritual fire.  The sap had begun to flow in the
birch trees, turning the winter brown twigs a brilliant eye-pleasing
purple.

It was spring when Conor had first made love to her--their wedding
night--and Nora hadn't even thought to be afraid, she'd trusted him so.
The bittersweet memories were as preserved in her mind as fossils
captured in amber.

"I had a 'dream' about your mam the other night," Nora's sister-in-law
had told Nora just the week before.  "She thinks you need a new man in
your life."

Nora was not particularly surprised that Kate would be claiming to be
in communication with.  Eleanor Joyce.  The fact that her mother had
been dead for years had certainly not stopped Nora from talking to her.
Since the conversations were a source of comfort, she never bothered to
wonder if others might think her a bit daft.  Besides, Nora often
thought she'd probably go daft if she weren't able to talk things out
with her mam.  But although her mother never actually answered her
back--except in

Nora's own mind--she suspected it might possibly be quite a different
case with Kate.

Ever since childhood, Kate had been able to "see" things.  Like when
she was five and saw the black wreath on Mrs.  Callahan's door two
months before the old woman dropped dead of a heart attack while
weeding her cabbage patch.  Or the time they were teenagers and had
been picnicking on the beach with a couple of boys and Kate saw little
Kevin Noonan 'floating facedown in the surf seconds before a
white-crested wave swept the wandering toddler off his feet--but soon
enough to warn his mother, thank God.

When her sister-in-law had brought up the subject of men the week
before, Nora had reminded Kate and her mother, in case Eleanor Joyce
had been eavesdropping from heaven-that she already had enough males in
her life.  "There's Da," she'd said.  "And, of course, Michael and
John."

"I don't think your mam was talking about your father or brothers,"
Kate had argued.  "She thinks you need to marry again.  You need a
husband."

Nora had grown up in Castlelough.  As a child she'd run barefoot in the
meadows with boys who'd grown up and were now the county's eligible
males.  She knew them all, liked most of them well enough, but there
wasn't a single solitary one whose boots she'd want to put beside her
bed.

"Well, then," she'd said with a soft laugh, "since there's none handy
around here and I'm too busy taking care of the farm and the children,
along with trying to keep Da on the straight and narrow, to go out and
find myself a proper husband, I guess you'll have to tell mam to pull
some strings up there and send me one."

"I suspect that may be what she has in mind to do," Kate had answered.
"But I doubt she has a proper one in mind.  What would be the challenge
in that, after all?"

What indeed?  Knowing her father's quicksilver nature all too well,
Nora suspected Eleanor Joyce had certainly had a great many challenges
in her own life.  As did Kate.  And most of the other married women of
her acquaintance.  Irish men, while charming, unfortunately did not
always make the easiest of husbands, she thought as she stopped in
front of her destination.

The sparkling windows of Monohan's Mercantile were filled with treats
designed to lure the passerby inside--colorful tins of biscuits, bags
of saltwater taffy, tidy rows of Cadbury chocolates, jars of skin
creams and bath lotions made from the carrageen moss still gathered by
hand from the rocky western coast and bunches of perky golden daffodils
displayed in dazzling white pots.

A paper banner, hand-painted kelly green on white, welcomed the cast
and crew of The of the lake to Castlelough.  Bordered with blatantly
touristy shamrocks, the banner also featured an imaginative rendition
of the creature rising from the water.  Nora guessed it had been drawn
by the Monohans' twelve-year-old daughter, Margaret, a talented young
artist who always won, in her age group, the summer's Sea Safety poster
contest.

Beneath the sign was a collection of miniature sea monsters for sale,
ranging from cheap plastic ones to sparkling crystal serpents
hand-blown by local artisans.  A towering pyramid of hardcover novels
claimed the center spot of honor in the gaily deep-crated window.

A small brass bell tied to the Dublin blue door signaled Nora's arrival
in the shop.

"So, today's the big day, is it?"  Sheila Monohan asked, looking down
from the top rung of a ladder where she was replacing a burned-out
fluorescent tube.  "The day your movie man arrives."

"Mr.  Gallagher is a writer."  Nora repeated what she'd already told
Mrs.  O'Neill.

She glanced at the pyramid of books.  From this vantage point, the
author photo on the back of the dust jacket seemed to be looking right
back at her.  Scowling at her, actually, which she didn't believe was
the best expression to encourage people to buy his book.  Still, even
with his glower, Quinn Gallagher didn't appear old enough to be so
successful.  Perhaps success, like so many other things, came easier in
America.

"I don't read horror novels," Sheila confessed.  "There are so many
things to worry about in the world.  I'd much rather settle down at
night with a nice love story.  But I hear many consider him quite a
fine writer."

"John certainly thinks so."  Nora's youngest brother had stayed up all
night reading the American horror novelist's latest book.  "Kate sings
his praises, as well.  But it still strikes me as odd the way
everyone's behaving.  You'd think a bunch of Americans arriving in
Castlelough was as important as the Second Coming."

After all, Americans weren't an uncommon sight.  Even perched on the
far west coast of Ireland as it was, Castlelough received its share of
tourists.  Still, Nora hadn't seen so much excitement since the time it
was rumored--erroneously, it turned out--that the pope was coming to
visit the rural county.

"People figure the movie folk will liven up the place," Sheila said.

"We're already lively."  When the older woman lifted a jet-black
eyebrow at the outrageous falsehood, Nora shrugged one slicker-clad
shoulder.  "Well, we may not have the bright lights of Dublin, but
that's the point.  Some of us appreciate a quiet life."

"if it's a quiet life you're seeking, Eleanor Rose Joyce Fitzpatrick,
you should have stayed in that Dublin convent.

"Besides--" Sheila nodded, appearing pleased with herself when the
light flickered to life "-you know as well as I do there's not much
opportunity in a small village like Castlelough.  Tourism or
emigration, that's our choice, my Devlin always says."  Even as her
heart took a little dive at the depressing prospect of having to leave
Castlelough, Nora couldn't resist a smile at the mention of Sheila's
son, the man who once, in what seemed like another lifetime, had taught
her to French-kiss, even as she'd worried for her immortal soul.

Sister Mary Augustine had taught all the girls in her class that
letting a boy put his tongue in your mouth was one of the vilest of
mortal sins.

"And don't forget, girls, every sin you commit is another thorn in our
Lord Jesus' side."  Sister had glared like Moses standing atop the
Mount at the group of tartan-clad adolescents.  "French-kissing debases
a girl.  And makes the devil smile."

Although Nora certainly hadn't wanted to make Satan smile, three years
after that memorable sex-education lecture, Devlin Monohan's kisses had
proved so thrilling she'd recklessly risked hell on more than one
occasion during that idyllic summer of her first love.

"How is Devlin?"  she asked now.

"Fit as a fiddle.  He rang up last night, as a matter of fact, to say
he's been offered a position at the National Stud."

"That's wonderful!"  Graduating from veterinary college and working at
the National Stud had been Devlin's dream.  He'd talked about it a lot
between kisses.

"Isn't it just?  I'll have to admit I'm guilty of the sin of pride at
the idea of my son helping to breed the best racehorses in the
world."

"It's no sin to be proud of a son."  On this Nora had reason to be very
clear.  Nora wondered if her mother knew this latest news about Devlin
and decided she probably did.  Not much had ever slipped by Eleanor
Joyce.

The woman who might have been Nora's mother-in-law climbed down from
the ladder and brushed her dusty hands on her apron, which, like the
poster, bore a fanciful image of the lake creature--which, in a way,
was the source of all this uproar.

If those old myths hadn't existed, Quinn Gallagher wouldn't have
written the book, Hollywood wouldn't have bought the film rights and
the movie people would have stayed in Hollywood.

"We were all surprised when you went off to become a postulate," Sheila
said suddenly, as if that life-altering Sunday morning were only
yesterday and not eight long years ago.  "Everyone expected you and my
Devlin would get married."

"I thought we might, as well.  For a time.  After all, Nora wouldn't
have risked hell for just anyone.  "But I truly believed I had a
vocation."

"Just because you could memorize all the prayers and catechism answers
faster than any girl at Holy Child School," Sheila said, "didn't
necessarily make you a candidate for the convent."  She was only
pointing out what Nora's own mother had told her as they'd loaded her
suitcase-filled with the muslin sheets, black stockings, black shoes
and white cotton underwear the nuns had instructed she bring to the
convent--into the family car.

"I would have eventually realized that."  Nora wondered briefly if this
out-of-the-blue discussion might be no coincidence.  Her mother had
supposedly told Kate she might be sending Nora a husband.  Could she be
trying to get the two childhood sweethearts back together again?

"As it turned out, you didn't have time to make up your own mind,"
Sheila said with a regretful shake of her head.  "What with your poor
mam dying giving birth to Celia and you having to leave the order."

It had been the second-worst time of her life.  "Someone had to tend to
the house and children."  And Da, she thought, but did not say.

"I've always said it was too much responsibility for a young girl.  A
child raising children was what you were.  Lord knows Brady, as good a
man as he is in his way, couldn't take care of himself, let alone those
babies.

"Considering how lonely you must have been, it's no wonder you fell
head over heels for Conor Fitzpatrick when he came back from the
continent with all those flashy trophies."

"I loved Conor," Nora stated firmly.

Her love for her dashing husband--who'd held the promise of becoming
one of the.  world's greatest steeplechase riders--had been the single
constant in Nora life during that time.  And if she hadn't married
Conor, Rory, the shining apple of her eye, wouldn have been born.  And
then Conor had been killed in a race, which had been the worst time of
her life.  "He's been dead for five years, Nora.  It's not good * for a
woman to be alone.  Especially a woman with children to raise."

"I manage."  "Of course you do, dear."  Sheila paused, giving

Nora the impression she was choosing her words carefully  "Devlin had
other news."  "Oh?"  "He's engaged.  To a young woman he met in
veterinary school."  The older woman's gaze had turned so intent Nora
felt as if she were standing at the wrong end of one of those
telescopes all the lake-monster trackers inevitably carried.  "I'm so
happy for him," she said.  "You'll have to give me his address so I can
write him a note.  ""You don't mind?"  "Of course not.  It's been over
between Devlin and me for a long time.  I'm pleased he's found someone
to share his life with."  So much for her mother's perceived
matchmaking. "Here's my list."  Not wanting to discuss her love
life--or lack of it--any longer, Nora handed the piece of paper to the
storekeeper.  "I hope you have some of those Spanish oranges.  Rory
loves them, and they're so much better for his teeth than sweets or
biscuits."

"You're a good mother, Nora Fitzpatrick," Sheila said.  "And no one can
fault the job you're doing with the children.  But it's easier on a
woman to have a man around the house.  Sons, especially, need a
father's firm guiding hand."

As the older woman began plucking items from the wooden shelves, Nora
almost laughed as she thought how much Sheila Monohan sounded like her
mother.  Which made sense, she decided, since the two women had been
best friends.

"Brady brought in your eggs this morning, in case you're wondering,"
Sheila offered as she began adding up Nora's purchases on her order
pad.  "I gave him a credit."

Nora had worried her father might have forgotten to sell the eggs
before heading off to the pub for a day of storytelling and gossiping.
She was also grateful Sheila hadn't paid cash for the eggs.  Da could
make coins disappear faster than the magician she'd seen at last year's
Puck Fair in County Kerry.

"Thank you."

"No thanks necessary.  They were good-size eggs, Nora.  A lot bigger
than Mrs.  O'Donnel's.  We'll get a good price for them."

Nora smiled at that.  "John says it's the Nashville music he's started
playing in the henhouse.  Perhaps I ought to write a letter to Garth
Brooks and ask if he'd be interested in paying me for a commercial
endorsement."

Although Nora still refused to believe that the piped-in tunes had any
effect at all on the hens, she couldn't deny that since her
seventeen-year-old brother's latest science experiment, they'd begun
laying more--and larger eggs.

"Brady said you were thinking of joining the cheese guild," Sheila said
after laughing at Nora's suggestion.  Her sentence tilted upward at the
end, turning it into a question.

"I'm considering it.  The man from the guild assures me I could
increase my profits by twenty percent.  He suggested Cashel blue."

"That's one of our most popular cheeses," Sheila agreed.  "And a
twenty-percent profit increase is certainly nothing to scoff at."

"I know.  And it's not as if we couldn't use the money."

Which was, of course, the only reason Brady had arranged to rent out
her bedroom.  Her father had informed Nora--after the fact--that the
American novelist, Quinn Gallagher, would be staying in their house,
and Nora had no option but to agree.  Besides, the man was paying an
amazingly generous price for a bedroom, shared bath, and morning and
evening meals.

She'd almost resigned herself to moving the children to Galway and
taking that job as a bookkeeper to a land developer, a former
schoolmate who'd become wealthy refurbishing the bay waterfront for
tourism.  Now she could allow herself to think she might actually be
able to turn down the offer.

"Money' S always something we could all use more of," Sheila said with
a sigh.

Yes, Nora thought, it wasn't easy resisting the lure of the city with
its high-paying jobs.  And traffic congestion, and polluted air, and so
many people a body couldn't take a breath without invading the private
space of her neighbor.

Nora knew that her brother John and her sister Mary longed for the
bright city lights, but she supposed that was natural when you were
seventeen and sixteen.  Not that she herself ever had.  Conor, who'd
certainly enjoyed the fast life, had accused her of having the green
fields and rich black peat of the family farm in her blood.  Nora had
never denied it.  It was, after all, true.

Chapter Two

Forty Shades of Green

From the air, Ireland was a panorama of field and hedgerow, patchwork
valleys set amidst abrupt mountains.  Quinn Gallagher thought he'd
never seen so many shades of green in his life--sage, olive, beryl,
jade, emerald, malachite, moss, sea green, bottle green--the list
seemed endless.

"Christ, it looks just like a postcard," he murmured as he looked out
the window of the Aer Lingus jet.

"It looks like a gigantic bore," his seatmate in the first-class cabin
countered.  "We haven't even touched down yet and I'm ready to go
home."

Home.  The word had never had any real meaning for Quinn.  Home was a
place you wanted to go back to, a place where people would take you in.
Welcome you.  The roach-infested apartments and ramshackle trailers
where he'd spent his hard scrabble early years certainly didn't fit
that description.

Neither did the succession of brutal foster homes until, weary of
working on farms from sunup to sundown and being beaten for his
efforts, he'd run away at sixteen, lied about his age and joined the
navy.  And while the navy had, admittedly, represented the most
stability he'd experienced in his life, the ships on which he'd sailed
around the world certainly hadn't been home.

The sun reflecting off the water below was blinding.  Quinn shaded his
eyes with his hand as he took in the sight of the farmhouses looking
like tiny white boats floating on a deep green sea.

"Boring's relative.  I think it looks like God's country."  As soon as
he heard himself say the words, Quinn wondered where the hell they'd
come from.  He also immediately regretted having said them.

Laura Gideon's trademark sexy laugh revealed she was every bit as
surprised by his statement as he was.  "Strange words from a
card-carrying atheist, darling."

Quinn forced a reluctant laugh as something indefinable stirred inside
him, something that resisted his writer's need to analyze and label.

"Okay, so I overstated.  But you have to admit, it does look
beautiful."

"Of course it does," the actress agreed.  "You said it yourself.  The
quaint little scene looks like every postcard of Ireland you've ever
seen.  Heaven help us, I have a horrible feeling that the entire
country might turn out to be a living cliche."

Shuddering dramatically, she linked her fingers with his, a familiarity
that came from being a former lover.

"Perhaps it's something else."  She turned toward him, her eyes
gleaming with the wicked humor Quinn had always enjoyed.  "Perhaps it's
your 'auld sod' roots calling to you."

"I strongly doubt that."  He might be one of the hottest horror writers
in the business, but even Quinn couldn't think up a more terrifying
idea.

"Roots tie you down, Quinn, baby," he remembered his mother saying.
"They wrap around your ankles so bad you can't never get free."

It was the only thing Angie Gallagher had ever told him that Quinn had
taken to heart.  Twenty-four hours after making that boozy
proclamation, Angie was dead.  Quinn had gone to her funeral in the
company of the Elko County sheriff and his tearfully sympathetic wife,
watched the rough-hewn pine coffin being lowered into the unmarked
grave and wondered if his rambler of a mother had known she was fated
to spend the rest of her life in Jackpot, Nevada, population
five-hundred and seventy, not counting the cows.

The memory, which he usually avoided revisiting, was not a pleasant
one.  Quinn fell silent as he watched the verdant landscape rush
closer.  Laura, busy repairing her makeup before facing the press at
Shannon Airport, didn't seem to require further conversation.

The wheels touched down with a thud.  As the jet taxied toward the
terminal, Quinn felt his entire body clench--neck, shoulders, chest,
legs.

Enter, stranger, at your own risk, an all-too-familiar voice hissed in
some dark lonely corner of his mind.  Anxiety coiled through Quinn like
a mass of poisonous snakes, twining around phobic pressure points,
reminding him of that awful endless summer of his ninth year when he'd
slammed the secret doors on his psyche--and his heart--and nailed them
shut to keep out the monsters.

He forced a vague unfocused public smile, heard himself exchanging
farewells with the first-class flight crew, even watched himself sign
an autograph for the captain's seventeen-year-old son who was, the
silver-haired pilot assured him heartily, his "number-one fan."

It would be all right, Quinn told himself firmly.  He would be all
right.

But as he walked toward the light at the end of a jetway that had
suddenly turned claustrophobic, the raspy little voice belonging to
Quinn's personal bogeyman whispered another warning: Here there be
dragons.

"I still can't believe that real-estate agent's screw-up," Laura
complained while they waited for their bags in the terminal.  "How on
earth could she have forgotten to book you a room in town?"  "She
explained that.  My name somehow got left off the list of crew
members."  "You're not just any crew member.  You're the *
screenwriter, for Christ's sake.  ""With the emphasis on writer.  The
only reason I agreed to write this screenplay in the first place is
because I'm tired of the way Hollywood screws up*my books."  "If you
feel that way, perhaps you ought to stop selling them to Hollywood."

"I may be a control freak, sweetheart, but I'm not crazy enough to turn
down the big bucks."  His accountant had assured him he'd passed the
millionaire mark three books ago.  But Quinncouldn't quite make himself
stop running from his old demons that continued to pursue him.  There
were still times when he'd awaken in the middle of ahushed dark night,
drenched in sweat, deafening screams ringing in his ears.  "Besides,"
he said, "things probably worked out for the best.  I'm playing with an
idea for a new story, and it'll be easier to think about it if I go
home to the Joyce farm at the end of the day, instead of partying every
night with all of you."  "I can remember when you liked partying with
me Laura pouted prettily.

Her blatant flirting succeeded in banishing the lingering chill. "Those
were fun times."  "And could be again."  She laughed when he didn't
immediately answer.  "Good Lord, darling, you remind me of a wolf
sensing a trap.  Don't worry, I'm not trying to rope you into any
long-term affair.  I just thought, since we're both going to be stuck
in this Irish backwater for four long weeks, we may as well try to make
the best of it."

Quinn liked Laura.  A lot.  She was smart, witty, easy to look at and a
tigress in bed.  But he'd always subscribed to the theory that when
something was over, you moved on.  And didn't look back.

"I don't think that'd be a very good idea, sweetheart."  His eyes, rife
with a practiced masculine look of appreciation, swept over her.  "Not
that I'm not tempted."

She laughed again, a rich throaty sound designed to strum sexual
chords.  "That is undoubtedly the nicest rejection I've ever had.  I've
known a lot of men, Quinn, but none of them have perfected the art of
hit-and-run relationships better than you," she said without rancor.

"This from a woman who's been engaged four times."  And broken it off
every time.

"So I'm a slow learner."  She grinned up at him, seemingly unapologetic
about behavior that had provided the tabloid press with more than a few
headlines.  "That's why we're so good together.  Neither of us has any
wide-eyed expectations about the other, and we don't harbor any dreams
of a rosy until- death-do-us-part romantic future.  You and I are two
of a kind, Quinn."

There was no arguing with the accusation.  Besides, it was a helluva
lot better than the one he'd heard too many times to count--that his
heart was little more than a dark pit of ice water covered with a crust
of snow.  Quinn merely muttered something that could have been
agreement as the baggage carousel rumbled to a start.

After retrieving his bags and clearing customs, he found his way
blocked by a phalanx of reporters.  Laura, damn her, had ducked into a
rest room, leaving him to face the horde alone.

"Mr.  Gallagher, do you believe the Castlelough lake creature exists?"
a red-haired man wearing a rumpled wool sport coat and holding up a
small tape recorder called out.

"I've always believed in the existence of monsters.  I know you call
her the Lady, but technically she's still a monster."

A murmur of interest from the reporters.

"Do you expect to see the Lady while you're in Castlelough?"  a bald
man wearing thick-framed black glasses asked.

"That would be a plus since it would undoubtedly save a fortune in
special-effects costs if we could get her to perform for us," he
answered, drawing the expected laugh.

"Do you plan to research your Gallagher-family roots while you're in
the country?"

"No."  His tone was curt.  His eyes turned to frost.  "If there are no
more questions--"

"I have one."  This from a winsome young woman.  Her hair was jet, her
thickly lashed eyes the color of the.  Irish sea, and her skin as pale
as new snow.  The invitation in her bold-as-brass eyes was
unmistakable.

"Ask away."

"Is the female protagonist in your story based on a real woman? Perhaps
someone you met on a previous trip to Ireland?"

"Actually this is my first visit to your country.  And Shannon McGuire
was an entirely fictional character."

The heroine of his most recent novel was unlike any real woman Quinn
had ever met.  Unrelentingly optimistic, softhearted, ridiculously
virtuous and brave as hell.  And even knowing her to be a product of
his imagination, Quinn had been fascinated by her.

Usually, by the time he finished writing one book, his mind was already
well on to the next, and so he was more than glad to get rid of the
characters he'd begun to grow bored with.  But the widowed single
mother had been strangely different.  He'd found her difficult to let
go.

"And speaking of Shannon," he said' turning toward Laura, who'd finally
decided to make an appearance, accompanied by Jeremy Converse, the
film's producer director who'd taken the same transatlantic flight to
New York, "of course you all recognize the lovely Laura Gideon.  She'll
be playing Shannon McGuire in the film."

Quinn practically pushed her forward.  "It's show time, sweetheart," he
murmured.  As the reporters all began shouting out questions to the
sexy blond actress, he made his escape.

Since he wouldn't be staying in town with the crew, Quinn had arranged
to rent his own car.  He found his way to the Hertz booth where he
rented a four-door sedan from a tartan-clad beauty who was a dead
ringer for Maureen O'Hara.  Quinn decided he must be suffering from jet
lag when he found her directions difficult to follow, but she willingly
took the time to draw the route to Castlelough on his map.  How
difficult could it be?  he asked himself as he headed out of the
airport.

How difficult, indeed.  At first Quinn was entranced by the
scenery--the stone fences, the meadows splashed with purple, white and
yellow wildflowers, and the mountains--the rare times the sun broke
through the rain streaked with molten gold.  Here and there stood
whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs.  Little grottoes featuring
statues of the Virgin Mary--many adorned with seashells--seemed to have
been built at nearly every crossroad, and every so often he'd pass a
small statue of the Madonna standing in the center of a white-painted
tire, perky plastic flowers surrounding her bare feet.

The road seemed to go in endless circles.  And the myriad signs, many
written only in Irish, hindered more than helped.

Ninety minutes later, when he realized that the cemetery with the high
stone Celtic crosses he was driving by was the same one he'd passed
about an hour after leaving the airport, Quinn was forced to admit he
was hopelessly lost.

I'll make you a deal, Lord," he muttered, conveniently forgetting he'd
given up believing in God a long time ago.  "If you just give me a
sign, I promise to stop at the first church I see and stuff the poor
box with hundred-dollar bills."

He cast a look up at a sky the color of tarnished silver, not surprised
when the clouds didn't part to reveal Charlton Heston holding a stone
tablet helpfully etched with a proper map to Castlelough.  So much for
miracles.

Then again... When he suddenly saw an elderly woman wearing a
green-and-black-plaid scarf and blue Wellingtons weeding the grave
nearest the gates, Quinn told himself she must have been there all
along.

He pulled over to the side of the road and parked, then climbed out of
the car and walked over to her.  The rain had become a soft mist.

"Good afternoon."

She stopped raking and looked up at him.  "Good afternoon to you. You'd
be lost of course."

"Is it that obvious?"

"You passed by earlier.  Now here you are--again.  Isn that certainly a
sign you've lost your way?"  "I'm trying to get to Castlelough." "Well,
you'll not be getting there driving circles around the Holy Name
Cemetery, will you now?"  * The merry laughter in her dark eyes allowed
Quinnto keep a curb on his temper.  Although he wasn't accustomed to
being laughed at, especially by a woman, he couldn't deny that it was
probably one of those situations he'd look back on and laugh at
himself.  A very long time from now.

"I thought I had the directions clear--" he held out the wrinkled map
with the fluorescent green marker outlining what the rental clerk had
assured him were the proper roads "--but they turned out to be more
confusing than expected."  "Americans always get lost," she said.  "But
then again, haven't I known native Irishmen to have the same problem
from time to time?  Especially Out here in the west."  She shot a look
at the car--the only Mercedes in the Hertz inventory when he'd
arrived--and then another, longer look up at him.  "You'd be one of
those movie folk," she guessed.Quinn decided there was no point in
denying it.  "Yes."  He prepared himself for the usual barrage of
questions about the so-called fast life in Hollywood.  "I thought so."
That settled, and seeming less than impressed by his exalted status,
she took the map from his hand, making a clucking sound with her tongue
as she studied it.  "Ah, here's your problem.  You should have taken
the second left at the roundabout right before you got to
Mullaglimore." Quinn had suspected all along that one of the many
roundabouts--the Irish answer to eliminating

* four-way stops--had been his downfall.  "Could you tell me how to get
back there?"

"That's not difficult at all.  The first thing you need to do is turn
around and go back in the direction you just came from.  Then keep
driving until you see a sign pointing off to the right that says
Ballybrennan."

"Ballybrenna?"  The name sounded like several he'd already passed by.

"Aye, Ballybrennan," she repeated with a nod of her scarf-covered head.
"Now, mind you don't take that road."

"I don't?"

"Oh, no.  You'll be wanting to take the one that comes a wee bit after
it.  To Mary's Well.  You'll not miss it.  There's a lovely statue of
the Virgin standing right beside the sign.  Follow that road straight
through and you'll be finding yourself in Castlelough in no time."

Considering how many virgins he'd spotted, Quinn wasn't certain the
landmark was going to be a very big help, but didn't quibble.  "Thanks.
You've been a great help."

""Twas no trouble at all," she assured him with a nearly toothless
grin.  He was almost to the car again when she called out, "of course,
the sign might not say Mary's Well, mind you."

Biting back a flash of irritation, he slowly turned back toward her.
Having always been a direct-speaking kind of guy, Quinn was beginning
to realize that the land of his ancestors may prove more of a culture
shock than he'd suspected.

"What might it say?"  he asked mildly.

"It might be in Irish--Dabhac a Mhaire."

He was having enough trouble untangling the woman's thick west-country
brogue.  There was no way he was going to attempt to translate this
incomprehensible language.

Quinn had known that Castlelough was located in a Gaeltact area of the
county, where, despite the penal laws enforced by the British
government, the Irish language had never been allowed to die out At the
time, he'd thought it might add quaint color to his story.  He'd never,
until now, worried he might be unable to communicate with the
natives.

Thanking her again, he climbed back in the car and headed off in the
direction he'd come.  Quinn considered it another near miracle when he
found the turnoff.  Although the rest of the directions weren't quite
as simple as the woman had promised--the road split into different
directions a couple of times and he had to choose--he felt of flush of
victory when he finally viewed the sign welcoming him to Castlelough.

Chapter Three

Weather the Storm

By the time Nora finished her weekly errands, forced at every step to
listen to more talk about the movie people, the gathering gloom had
darkened the sky over Castlelough, making her wish she'd insisted her
father leave her the car.  A stiff breeze from the Atlantic whipped her
hair into a wild tangle that kept blowing across her eyes.

She could of course cycle over to The Irish Rose and retrieve the car,
but that would leave him to walk or cycle home in the rain.  Although
her father often drove her to distraction, she'd never forgive herself
if he came down with pneumonia.

"It's only five kilometers," she reminded herself optimistically.  "If
you hurry, you might get home before the rain starts."

She was grateful Quinn Gallagher wasn't expected to arrive until early
this evening, which would give her time to fix a proper supper.  She
didn't want anyone saying Nora Fitzpatrick wasn't a good hostess.

Nora stuffed her purchases into waterproof canvas bags, then fit them
into the wire baskets that hung on either side of the bicycle's rear
wheel.  She'd barely begun to pedal down the road when the sky opened
up.  Ten minutes later she'd just about decided to take the children
and emigrate to a sheep ranch in sunny west Australia--where her eldest
brother Finn served as a parish priest--when the blare of a car horn
almost made her crash into the stone edging the roadway.

Swearing beneath her breath, she moved closer to the shoulder, trying
not to get bogged down in the thick mud.

Instead of passing, the car pulled up beside her.  Rather than the
compact usually seen on Irish roads, this was a huge whale of an
American vehicle from the gilded era of excess chrome and overgrown
tail fins.  That alone would have made it unique in a country with such
narrow winding roads and expensive petrol.

But what truly made it one-of-a-kind were the pink-cheeked cherubs and
gilt-winged angels cavorting amidst the orange rust spots on the
thirty-five-year-old lemon yellow body.  And then there was the mural,
depicting the Virgin Mary, arms outstretched and halo gleaming, riding
a puffy white cloud to heaven--painted in bright primary colors on the
hood.

Nora knew that inside the car a rosary blessed by Pope John XXIII
himself hung from the rearview mirror; also, although the Vatican had
repossessed his sainthood, a plastic statue of Saint Christopher
continued to ride shotgun on the padded dashboard.

The enormous gas-guzzling Cadillac came to a stop with a protesting
squeal of wet brakes; there was an electric hum as the passenger window
slowly rolled down and a head as brightly red-gold as Nora's popped
out.

""Tis only a fit day for fish, ducks and lake creatures," Fionna Joyce
declared.  "Put your bicycle in the back, darling.  And get yourself in
out of the rain before you catch your death."

After stowing her bicycle and groceries in the vast cavern of a trunk,
Nora opened the angel-adorned door and settled into the tucked and
pleated heavenly sky blue leather seat of her grandmother's ancient
miracle-mobile.

The heat blasting from the vents in the padded dash immediately began
warming the chill from her bones.  The Cadillac might be a ridiculous
car for Ireland, or anywhere else for that matter, and it might be
large enough for a family of four to live in, but Nora couldn't fault
its heater.

Fionna Joyce was a small wiry woman with a complexion ruddied by the
suns of more than eighty summers and weathered by the winds that blew
from coast to coast.  Despite her age, her dark eyes were bright as a
sparrow's and her hair was a vivid red-gold.

"You should have dragged Brady from the pub and gotten him to drive you
home," Fionna said.

"It's not that f&," Nora argued.  "And I didn't want to disturb him."

Fionna sighed as she fingered the tiny crucifix with Jesus' feet
crossed modestly at the ankles that hung from a gold chain in the vee
of her pink wool cardigan.  The lapels of the heavy sweater were
adorned with religious cameos.

"I dearly love my youngest son, but he's an incurable dreamer.  Just
like his father before him."

"And you're not?"  Nora's smile took the sting of accusation from her
words.

"of course not!"  Fionna seemed honestly shocked by the idea.  "Women
don't have time to be dreamers, Nora.  Shouldn't you, of all people,
know that?"

"Wouldn't you consider your Bernadette crusade just a wee bit
fanciful?"

"There's nothing fanciful about getting dear Bernadette canonized,
darling.  And, heaven knows, don't those red skirts in the Vatican owe
us a saint after taking Saint Philomena away from us?"  She paused.
"And speaking of Bernadette, I have a line on a new tale."

Fionna had been attempting to get Sister Bernadette Mary--a Sister of
Mercy nun who'd worked tirelessly to bring about peace during the
Anglo-Irish War for independence and had been killed by the Black and
Tans for her efforts--declared a saint for the past decade.  Since an
important part of the juridical process was to document the candidate's
life, holy works and, most importantly, provide proof of at least two
miracles, Fionna had been relentless in her search for evidence of a
miraculous event done in the young woman's name.

Nora had begun to worry that such religious obsession might be a sign
of senility.  Then again, considering her own close conversational
relationship with her long-dead mother, she decided perhaps all the
Joyces were more than a little fanciful.

"How did your trip to Eniscorthy go?"  she asked.  Fionna sighed.  "I
suppose it depends On whether or not the Holy Father would consider the
curing of a mare's colic a miracle."

Nora repressed the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  Fionna
found nothing humorous about sainthood.  "I'd suspect the owner was
happy.  But I doubt such an event would pull much weight with the
bishop."

"The only way that man would be impressed would be a modern-day repeat
of the wine-at-the-wedding miracle.  If Bernadette could make whiskey
flow out of the bishop's water tap, he'd recommend her before you could
say Bushmills malL"

Bishop McCarthy had steadfastly refused to pass along any of Fionna's
documents to the Vatican's

Congregation for the Cause of Saints.  Nora knew her grandmother
believed that such an unrelenting lack of cooperation was proof of the
bishop's sexism.

"It's bad enough, in his mind, that the evidence is being compiled by a
mere female, instead of a priest, as is usually done," Fionna muttered.
"It's obvious he has no intention of adding another female saint to the
religious roster."

Like her Irish Volunteer forefathers who'd refused to give up a good
fight, Fionna refused to surrender what she'd come to view as a holy
war.

She slanted Nora a look.  "If I die before the Vatican comes through,
you'll have to carry on."

"You're going to live forever," Nora said quickly.  Firmly.

"No one lives forever, dear," Fionna said mildly.  "Not in our mortal
form, at any rate."  Then, as if understanding Nora's reluctance to
discuss the subject, she returned the topic to its earlier track.  "I'm
off to Derry to hear another story next week.  Is there anything you'd
like me to get for you?"

Although the prices were often lower in Northern Ireland, Nora wasn't
at all eager to hear that her grandmother would be traveling there. But
she also knew the futility of arguing.

"My Sunday blazer is getting too holey even for church, thanks to the
moths dining on it," Nora said

"On sale or not, it's yours."

"Remind me to give you the money before you go."

"That's not necessary.  And it's not a gift," the older woman insisted
before Nora could argue the point.  "Consider it payment.  For
continuing my work after I'm gone," she tacked on slyly.

Knowing when she was bested, Nora didn't even try to protest.  As she
watched the mist-shrouded landscape flash by the window, she wondered
if the American writer would expect dessert every night after his
supper.

Nora heard the wails before she even got to the kitchen door.  Since
her older brother, Michael, was away in Kerry, selling his wool, her
younger brother, John, had been stopping by Michael's farm after school
to tend to the milking.  Which had left the younger two children in
Mary's hands this afternoon.

Despite the fact that her sister suffered the usual mood swings that
came with being sixteen, Mary was, for the most part, a good dependable
girl.

"Another boy crisis," Fionna guessed.

"You're probably right."  Nora hoped that whatever it was that was
making her sister keen like a banshee was not as serious as it sounded.
She felt guilty when the first thought that came to mind was an
unplanned pregnancy, but then again, Nora knew all about teenage
desires.

And wasn't Mary's best friend, Deidre McMann, about to become a mother?
The father was a college boy Deidre had met at a fair in Limerick.

"Jack broke Mary's heart," Rory ran up to announce, his wolfhound at
his heels, as always.  Blue eyes; the deep-sea shade of his father's,
held seeds of worry.  His dark hair, again so like Conor's, had fallen
over his forehead.

Feeling a familiar rush of love for her son, Nora brushed the hair
back.  "I'll tend to Mary.  Meanwhile, why don't you go finish your
chores?  I brought Maeve a nice juicy bone," she said, handing him a
package tied with a string.  "She can chew on it while you feed your
rabbits."

"Thanks, Mam!"  He was off like a shot, seemingly relieved to leave
matters of the heart to the female members of the family.
Uncharacteristically, Maeve, emboldened by the smells emanating from
the waxed white paper, began barking excitedly and nipping at his
heels.

Enjoying the carefree sight of boy and dog, Nora said a quick prayer
that she wouldn't have to take her son from the life here that fit him
so well.  Then, unable to avoid this latest problem any longer, she
went with Fionna into the house.  She put the grocery bags on the
wooden counter and turned to her sister.  "So.  What did Jack do
now?"

Since her mother had taught her there were very few problems that
couldn't be solved by a cup of tea, Nora put a kettle of water on the
stove to boil.

"He broke my heart!"  Mary wailed, echoing Rory's explanation.

"And how exactly did he do that?"

"He asked Sharon Fitzgerald to the May Dance."

"Is that all?"  Fionna asked.

"You don't understand!  Everyone's already coupled up.  I won't have a
date!"

"You could always go to the dance alone," Fionna suggested.

"Grandmother!"  Mary shot a desperate look at Nora.  "Would you please
explain that these days only the wretched homely girls destined for
spinsterhood go to dances alone?"

"I doubt you're destined for spinsterhood," Nora replied mildly as she
noted the black trails of mascara running down her sister's cheeks.

While she understood a teenager's natural impulse for rebellion, she
did wish that Mary hadn't taken to emulating what had become known in
Dublin as the Gothic look.  The black tortured-artist's clothing, white
KabukiAancer powder and maroon-painted lips Mary favored on weekends
away from school detracted from her natural beauty.

At least the nuns had forbidden the fluorescent green or orange spiked
hair sported by the city teenagers.  And, needless to say, body
piercing was out of the question.  Nora decided to be grateful for
small favors.

"I realize it hurts," she tried again.  "But it's not the end of the
world, darling.  There are still three weeks until the dance, and
perhaps Jack will change his mind--"

"He's not going to change his mind," Mary sniffed.  "Because the only
reason he dropped me for Sharon is 'cause she puts out.  She's probably
slept with half the boys in school."

There it was again.  That ever-threatening sex issue.  Lately, Nora had
finally come to understand all too well why her mother had worried so
during the days she'd been stealing off to hidden meadows with Devlin
Monohan.

"A man won't buy the cow when he can get the milk for free," Fionna
said sagely.  "You're right to hold on to your virginity, Mary, dear.
When you're with your husband on your wedding night, you'll look back
on this day and be glad you held firm."

"I'm never going to get married!"

"of course you will."  Nora handed her a tissue.

"No, I'm not."  Mary blew her nose with a loud unfeminine honk.  "I've
decided to become a nun."

"You've certainly got the wardrobe for it," Fionna muttered, casting a
derisive look at the flowing black skirt and ebony tunic sweater.

"You can't be a nun, seven-year-old Celia, who was coloring in a book
of Irish Grand National winners, piped up.  "You have to have a
vocation.  Then you go off to be a missionary in the Congo."

The kettle whistled, allowing Nora to turn away to hide her smile.  The
Nun's Story was a perennial favorite on television, broadcast every
season during lent.

Mary turned on the youngest Joyce sister.  "That's just a stupid
movie.

"I know that."  Celia lifted her small pointed chin.

"But Sister Mary Anthony is reading us the lives of the saints, and
they all had vocations.  Like Saint Theresa who walked on thorns and
didn't flinch.  And Joan of Arc who was burned at the stake and never
even cried."

"And let's not be forgetting Saint Maria Goretti who died rather than
submit to a man," Fionna said pointedly.  "She didn't even lose courage
when her attacker started stabbing her with his dagger.  Now that's a
vocation."

"I didn't say I was going to be a bloody saint!"

* Mary's palm hit the kitchen table with enough force to send crayons
rolling off onto the floor.  "I said I was going to be a nun."

"There's no need to swear."  Nora put the teapot on the table.

You just don't understand!"  Mary jumped up, knocking over her chair
with a loud clatter.  "None of you understand!"  she cried as she ran
from the room

There was the sound of footfalls on the stairs.  Moments later the slam
of a door reverberated through the farmhouse, causing the calendar from
Monohan's Mercantile, with the lovely photograph of wildflowers, to
tilt on the wall like a drunkard.

Appearing unfazed by the histrionics, Celia returned to her coloring,
carefully filling in the lines of a flowing mane with a crayon that was
nearly the same color as her russet braids.  "When I'm a teenager, I'm
not going to have anything to do with boys," she vowed.

"I, for one, would be very grateful if you stick to that decision,"
Nora said, even though she knew it would never happen.  Boys and tears
were just part of growing up.

Wanting to calm things down before the American writer arrived, Nora
followed the pitiful sound of sobbing upstairs.  Although she tried her
best to sympathize with Mary's upsets, it was difficult when they
occurred so often.  Granted, Jack's behavior was just cause, but
usually Mary's bleak moods were triggered by far less.

But then again, Nora reminded herself, she hadn't lost her mother at
the tender age of nine as Mary had.  She'd been all of eighteen and had
had Conor to offer comfort and love during that sad time.

As she rapped on the closed bedroom door, Nora thought that Sheila
Monohan had definitely been right about one thing.  Raising her
mother's three children along with her own--not to mention worrying
about her father, who was little more than an overgrown child
himself-was far from easy.

Nora lifted her eyes upward, which, unfortunately made her notice the
new brown water stain on the ceiling.  She really was going to have to
get the roof rethatched.

"It would certainly be nice, Mam," she murmured, "if you could give me
a little help with this one."

Chapter Four

Smoke and Strong Whiskey

As Quinn drove past the butcher shop, the rows of meat and dressed
chickens displayed in the storefront window reminded him of how many
hours it had been since he'd eaten.  Spotting the hanging sign across
the square advertising The Irish Rose pub, he decided to stop.

"Some food and a couple cups of coffee should stave off jet lag."  And
ease the headache that had begun to throb while he'd been driving
around in circles.

This would also give him an opportunity to ask directions to the Joyce
farm.  He'd been assured by the rental agent who handled the
transaction that the farm was on the road directly out of
Castlelough.

however, having already discovered the vagaries of the Irish roadway
system, Quinn feared the agent's assurances would prove to be overly
optimistic.

He allowed himself a smile when he read the words burned into the piece
of wood nailed to the pub door: Here when we're open.  Gone when we're
closed.

The interior of The Irish Rose could have been lifted directly from the
set of The Quiet Man.  Quinn suspected it had looked much the same when
the town of Castlelough had been founded more than five hundred years
earlier.

The dark-paneled walls had shelves filled with bottles of whiskey
gleaming like a pirate's bounty in the light from the brass-hooded
lamps.  Behind the bar, a mirror advertised Guinness in fancy gold
script.

A turf fire burned in the large open hearth at one end of the room,
warding off the chill; a cloud of smoke hung in the air.  Wooden tables
had been crowded onto the hand-pegged floor and heavy benches
resembling church pews had been placed along the wall.  The only
anachronism was the television, bolted above the bar and currently
tuned to a hurling match.

When his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Quinn could see three men seated
at the bar, more men scattered around at the tables smoking pipes and
reading newspapers, and a pair of teenage boys playing darts.  A man
and woman were eating a late lunch of pub grub while a pair of
carrot-haired toddlers Quinn took for twins happily munched on crunchy
chips.

All eyes immediately turned toward him as he crossed the floor and sat
down on a stool in front of the scarred wooden bar.

Lovely day," a small spry leprechaun-like man remarked.

"A bit chilly," Quinn replied.  Only yesterday he'd been basking in the
California sun.

"Aye."  The man nodded.  "Though myself, I don't care for it when it's
warm.  Then you've got nothing to complain about, after all.  It's no
good for the talk..."  His words trailed off.  Abruptly he said, "You'd
be Quinn Gallagher."

"That was either one helluva guess or you're psychic."

"Now, there have been some who've accused me of that over the years,
but it's not how I knew you."  A smile brightened the apple-cheeked
face; still-young blue eyes twinkled merrily.  "I recognized you from
the photograph on the back of your books.  Hasn't my youngest son,
John, read them all?  He especially liked the one about the banshee."

"That was one of my favorites, as well."  It was his first published
novel, written during a blaze of inspiration the likes of which Quinn
had never experienced since.  His muse was a fickle mistress.

"Brady's seen a banshee," the second man, who appeared to be nearing
the century mark, revealed.

His bulbous red nose suggested he'd spent several of those many years
indulging a fondness for the bottle.

"Brady?"  It was undoubtedly a common enough name, Quinn told
himself.

"Brady Joyce, at your service," the first man said.  "And isn't this
the divil's own luck, you stopping by The Rose on your way out to the
farm?"

"It's quite a coincidence."

"Not so much of one," the second man alleged.  "The Rose is the only
pub this side of the river.  It's also the first one on the road into
town, which made it likely it'd be the one you chose to stop at

"And whenever The Irish Rose is open--" he took along drink of the dark
beer in front of him and wiped the creamy tracing of foam off his top
lip with the back of his hand -isn't it sure you'll find Brady Joyce
sitting right on that very stool, spinning his tales.  He's the finest
seanachie in the county."

"Oh, I'm not nearly as fine a storyteller as Mr.  Gallagher," Brady
said with what Quinn suspected was more than a little false modesty.

"That may be the case, indeed, but the banshee story is a grand fearful
tale," the old man countered.  "It never fails to give me gooseflesh."
He cast Quinn an appraising look.  "You'd be one of those movie
people."

"Brady was telling me about you staying at the farm.  We were thinking
you might want to make a movie outta one of his tales."

"Oh, it was Fergus here who was thinking that," Brady said quickly.  A
bit too quickly, Quinn thought.  "I told him it was foolishness."

"Getting a movie made is a real long shot," Quinn said carefully,
afraid of offending his host by suggesting he might not consider Brady
Joyce's stories worthy of consideration.

The rest of the cast and crew was already booked into every spare room
in the village; if Joyce decided to welsh on the rental agreement,
Quinn would have no choice but to take Laura up on her offer.  A
situation he was determined to avoid.

"And isn't that just what I was telling Fergus?"  Brady nodded.  "A
long shot."

"And wouldn't one consider getting a movie made about a lake creature
in a small Irish town few have ever heard of a long shot?"  the man
named Fergus suggested slyly.

"Good point... So, you've actually seen a banshee?"  Quinn asked Joyce.
Although he'd enjoyed writing the story of the keening fairy woman, he
considered such a thing on a par with the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and
the tooth fairy.

"Aye, that I have," Brady agreed cheerfully.  "I've also seen the
lovely Lady who brings all you movie people to Castlelough.  But those
are tales for another time.  First we need to get you something to
drink.

"Publican, a pint for my guest," he called out robustly to the man who
was drying glasses not two feet away.  "I'll stand a round for the
room, as well.  And bottles of orange for the boys.

"And while Brendan pulls your pint, you can tell us all about
yourself," Brady invited, turning back to Quinn.

"There's not that much to tell."  Never one to talk about his past,
Quinn was definitely not eager to discuss it here, among strangers.

"Of course there is.  As a storyteller yourself, you should know
there's no one else like you.  No story like your own.  And there's
always the fact that," Brady tacked on impishly, "if you don't tell us,
we'll have no choice but to make things up."

Before Quinn could respond to that, a large man at the end of the bar
abruptly stood and announced, "I'll not be drinking to the likes of
him."

The room suddenly went deathly still.  Glasses lowered to wooden
tables.

"Now, Cadel," Brady said cajolingly, "is that any way to be talking to
a visitor?"

"Did I ask him to come here?"  His hands were curled at his sides.  The
meaty fists and the murder in his dark eyes reminded Quinn of a
heavyweight boxer.  "I don't recall inviting any fucking Yanks to
Castlelough," the man growled.  He shot a lethal glare Quinn's way.
"Why don't you bloody Americans stay home where you belong?"

Quinn decided the question was a rhetorical one, designed to start a
fight.  And although he'd gotten into his share of bar brawls in his
younger days, he had no intention of allowing himself to be baited
now.

When Quinn didn't answer, his red-faced challenger turned back to
Brady.  "And aren't you're just as bad, Brady Joyce, letting this
fucking rich tourist into your house for the price of a few pounds? The
bloody foreigners are overrunning this country, flashing their Yank
money, buying up our land, destroying tradition.  Ireland's a beautiful
woman.  And some people--" his hard-as-stone eyes raked both the old
man and Quinn "The fucking pimps."

That said, he tossed back the rest of his whiskey and strode from the
pub, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.  A thick silence lingered
in his wake.

"Now don't be paying any mind to the likes of Cadel O'Sullivan," Brady
advised Quinn with unfailing cheer.  "He's been in a sour mood for most
of his thirty-three years."

All the men in the room laughed on cue.  The tension dissolved.

A tall glass was placed in front of Quinn.  Brady raised his own.
"Slainte!  To your health!"  he translated helpfully.

"Slainte," Quinn returned the toast As the hum of conversation resumed,
he took a long swallow of the lacy-headed, velvety dark brew and felt
the headache that had escalated during the brief confrontation with
Cadel O'Sullivan begin to ease.

Brady next launched into a long introduction of his drinking mate,
Fergus, that went back several generations and included an ancestor
alleged to be a silkie--one of the seal women of Irish myth.  Quinn
listened, surrendering to the alchemy of the Guinness.

Although she was not a worrier by nature, Nora grew concerned when the
evening passed with no sign of Quinn Gallagher or Brady.  She wasn't
all that surprised about her father; after all, the pub didn't close
for another hour.  But most of the Americans she'd met over the years
appeared wed to the clock.  It seemed unlikely that the writer would be
so late without at least trying to notify her.

Rory and Celia had gone to bed some time ago.  Mary, who'd finally
stopped her weeping, seemed to have fallen asleep, as well, and the
faint sound of music drifting from John's room suggested that her
brother was studying, as he did late into every night.

She'd finally taken the stew off the stove and put it in the
refrigerator, and now she was pacing the floor of the small front
parlor, stopping every so often to peer through the rain-streaked
window at the well of darkness surrounding the farmhouse.

"His plane landed hours ago," she told Fionna after she rang the
airport.  "And Ellen down at Flannery House said that several of the
Americans who arrived at Shannon on the same flight checked in this
afternoon."

Fionna glanced up from her knitting.  "Perhaps he went sightseeing."

"Perhaps."  Nora frowned and wondered if she should put more peat on
the fire or just go upstairs to bed.  "But you'd think that he would
notify us if he'd changed his plans."

The click of needles didn't stop as the older woman continued working
on the thick sweater destined to go to university in the fall with
John.  The sound provided an accompaniment to Waylon Jennings's deep
voice coming from the radio upstairs, the steady tick-tick-tick of the
mantel clock as it counted off the minutes and hours, and the
rat-a-tat- tat of wind-driven rain against the windowpanes.

"The man is certainly starting off on the wrong foot," Fionna allowed.
Her expression turned thoughtful.  "Do you think he could have had an
accident on the roadway?  After all, Americans aren't accustomed to
driving on the left-hand side of the road, and what with all this
rain..."

"I hadn't thought of that."  A tiny shiver of icy fear skipped up
Nora's spine.  "I wonder if I should ring the hospital?"

"Or the Garda, perhaps," Fionna suggested.

Although Nora was not at all eager to involve the police, she was
headed for the phone again when she saw a flash of headlights through
the leaded front window.

"Finally!"  She ran to open the front door.  The porch light cast a
yellow, rain-shimmered glow on the white car with black markings parked
in the driveway.  "It's Sergeant O'Neill."

Fionna tossed her knitting aside and hurried to stand beside her.  "I'm
certain it's nothing, darling.  The sergeant probably found the
American broken down alongside the roadway and--"

"It's Da."  Nora watched Brady stagger from the back seat of the police
car.

"Oh dear.  It's been a while since he drank too much to drive," Fionna
said with a sigh.

"I hope he didn't crash the car."  It would take more eggs than even
her musically stimulated hens could lay to buy a new one.

"Good evening to you, Fionna."  The sergeant touched his fingers to the
brim of his dark hat.  "Nora.  My cousin Brendan was working the bar at
The Rose and rang me up to say that Brady and his friend needed a ride
home."

"His friend?"

"The writer.  As I told Brendan, I was happy to oblige.  We wouldn't
want a famous Yank crashing his car his first day in the country, now,
would we?"

Nora watched as a second man climbed out of the back seat Straightening
his back, he began walking toward the house with the exaggerated care
of someone who was drunk to the gills.

"No," she agreed faintly, "we certainly wouldn't want that."  How in
the name of heaven had the American and Brady met up?  "Thank you,
Gerry, for bringing them home."

"No problem, Nora."  Gerry O'Neill put the bags he'd fetched from the
American's car inside the open door "I was just doing my job.  Good
night, all."  Touching his hat again, the policeman folded his tall
lean body into the car, backed up and drove away into the night.

Evenin', Nora darling'," Brady greeted his daughter He laid a hand on
her shoulder and bestowed a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

Then he grinned at Fionna.  "Evening, Mam."

"Don't "Evening, Mam," me," Fionna shot back, her hands on her hips.
"Not when you come home from the pub weaving like a salley tee in the
wind."

"Would you not have me properly welcome our guest to the land of his
ancestors?"  Still using Nora for ballast, Brady waved his free hand
toward the much taller man who'd come up beside him.  "This fine fellow
is none other than the famous American writer, Quinn Gallagher.  Quinn,
may I present my sharp-tongued but endearing mother, and my darling
lovely daughter, Nora."

It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr.  Gallagher," Nora said
politely to her guest--her paying guest, she reminded herself.

Only an alert listener would have been able to detect the note of
irritation in her voice.  To think that he hadn't been lying near death
in some hospital emergency ward, that after all her worrying he'd
merely been getting drunk in The Irish Rose pub with her father!

"We were concerned you may have driven off the cliff on the way here
from Shannon."

"I'm sorry."  Quinn's words were far more slurred than Brady's.  "I
never meant to cause anyone any concern."  His gaze moved from daughter
to grandmother.  "And I have no excuse for my inconsiderate behavior.
Other than the fact that I lost track of the time."

"That's likely enough, once my son begins spinning his tales," Fionna
allowed.  "At least you had the good sense not to get behind the
wheel."

With those words of absolution, Fionna turned and went back into the
house.  If Nora's nerves hadn't been so frazzled, she might have
enjoyed watching the two men follow as meekly as newborn lambs.

When she joined the three in the sitting room, Nora studied Quinn
Gallagher more closely.  Despite his appropriately contrite words, she
thought that he was a hard, tough man.  His face--all sharp angles and
lean hollows, narrowing down to a firm unyielding boxer's jaw-could
have been roughly chiseled from stone.  Too harsh to be considered
lived-in, it revealed an arrogance and a remoteness that were in
decided contrast to his outwardly penitent tone.  A faint white scar on
his cheek added a menacing touch.

His deeply set eyes were as dark and unrevealing as midnight.  Despite
his glower, the photograph on the back of the book covers in the window
of Sheila Monohan's store had made the novelist appear intelligent and
sophisticated.  However, there was nothing ; sophisticated about this
man.

He was rangy, like a long-distance runner, all sinew and lean muscle
clad in black jeans, a black T shirt and black leather jacket.  She'd
known larger men, but none so physically imposing.  The sense of
tightly coiled male energy emanating from Quinn Gallagher and the way,
even as inebriated as he obviously was, he made a woman all too aware
of being female, had Nora suddenly wanting to throw him out of her
house.

Kate's earlier remark about Nora's mother sending her a husband
suddenly seemed more threat than promise.

Tell me this isn't your doing, Mam, Nora begged silently as nerves
tangled themselves into a knot inside her stomach.

If Eleanor Joyce had searched the entire world over, she couldn't have
found a more unsuitable husband and father candidate than this man clad
all in devil's black.

For a fleeting moment Nora envisioned the writer as an old-time
gunfighter, standing on some dusty Western street with six-shooters
drawn, facing down a gang of train robbers at high noon.  It was a
scene she'd seen a hundred times in American movies--with one
difference.  This time, in her mind's eye, it was Quinn Gallagher who
was wearing the black hat.

Dear Lord, she was getting every bit as fanciful as Fionna and Brady!

"You'll be wanting to go directly to bed, I imagine."  Nora was pleased
when her calm voice revealed none of her inner turmoil.

As if giving up his attempt to stand erect, Quinn leaned back against
the white plaster wall.  She forced herself to hold her ground as his
dark eyes swept over her again.

"Now there's an idea," he murmured for her ears only.  His voice was
like silk, wound through with a thread of sarcasm.  Wicked intent
gleamed in his gaze and played at the corners of his mouth.

"As drunk as you are, I suspect even the idea would be more than you
could handle, Mr.  Gallagher," she said under her breath, grateful that
her father was currently distracting Fionna with the story of how he
and the Yank had happened to meet up.

"I wouldn't bet the farm on that, sweetheart."

He was too brash.  Too dangerous.  Too male.  How in the name of all
the saints was she going to put up with this arrogant man in her house
for four long weeks?  Reminding herself she'd already spent the
generous deposit the rental agent had forwarded to repair the smoking
chimney, Nora gathered up her scattered composure and managed, with
effort, to hold her tongue.

Wanting to get the man out of sight and mind as quickly as possible,
she glanced over at Brady, who'd collapsed in his easy chair.  Since he
was obviously too unsteady on his feet to take their boarder up the
steep set of stairs, it appeared Nora was stuck with him.

"I'd best be showing you to your room."  Then, since the writer
appeared nearly as unsteady as Brady, she had no choice but to put her
arm around his waist to help him balance.  "Before you pass out and end
up spending the night on the floor."

It wouldn't be the first time."

Oh dear.  She wondered what Brady had gotten them into, renting a room
to a man accustomed to coming home drunk.  Despite the much-needed
funds he represented, Nora vowed on the spot that if he caused any
problem in front of the children, she was going to send the American
writer on his way.

"Not the passing-out part," he elaborated, as if reading her mind.
"Despite appearances to the contrary, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick, I am not a
drunk."  He spoke slowly and deliberately.  Exactly, Nora thought, like
a drunk.

"You've no idea how it pleases me to hear that, Mr.  Gallagher."

As she began leading him across the room, he glanced back over his
shoulder.  "Good night, Joyce.  Thanks for the welcome.  I enjoyed
myself immensely.  Ma'am, it was indeed an honor."  This last to
Fionna!

"Good night to you, too, Gallagher," Brady said.

"It was indeed interesting, Mr.  Gallagher," Fionna responded.
"Pleasant dreams."

"Nice lady," Quinn said to Nora.

He leaned against her and slid his arm around her shoulder in a
surprisingly smooth gesture for a man who'd been drinking.  The stairs
were narrow, forcing them to climb thigh to thigh.  Nora had the
impression of steel-hard and unyielding.

"Lord, you're soft."  Quinn leaned down and nuzzled her neck.  "And you
smell damn good, too.  Like wildflowers and rain.

Nora would bet her prize bull that he said that to all the women.  "And
you smell like whiskey."

"Unfortunately that's probably true."  He frowned.  "I don't know what
the hell got into me"

"I suspect too much Jameson."  She opened the door to the bedroom she'd
grown up in and they stepped inside.  "You'll have the devil's own head
in the morning."

"Undoubtedly true, also.  But it was worth it.  Your father is one
helluva storyteller."

"Aye, he is that.  The best in the county.  The finest in all Ireland,
some say."

"That wouldn't surprise me.  I suspect it doesn't hurt to have Joyce
blood flowing in his veins.

"No.  I imagine not."  Nora, who'd been brought up to be proud of her
literary heritage, had often thought that same thing herself.  "Still,
it's easy for the hours to slip away when he begins spinning his
tales."

"So I discovered.  The hard way."

Their eyes met and in a suspended moment of shared amusement, there
occurred a flash of physical awareness so strong that Nora had a sudden
urge to hug herself.  With her mind whirling the way it was, she
couldn't decide if the desire came from a need for self-protection or
an even stronger need to feel the touch of hands on her uncomfortably
warm body.

At the same time Quinn seemed to turn strangely angry.  His smile
vanished and his dark eyes went shuttered, like a pair of windows
painted over with pitch.

"You know what I said about going to bed?"  He shrugged out of his
leather jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair.

"I don't think we should be talking about this."  Nora's unruly heart
fluttered like a wild bird as she pulled back the handmade quilt that
had been a wedding gift from her sister-in-law.  Then she reached up,
took hold of Quinn's broad shoulders and pushed him down onto the
bed.

"Tough.  Because, you see, sweetheart, there's one thing you should
know about me.  I'm the kind of guy who likes to put all his cards on
the table right off the bat."

Nora was not accustomed to men she hardly knew calling her sweetheart.
And she definitely wasn't accustomed to having such an intimate
conversation with a stranger.  Wondering how it was that the man could
still appear threatening while lying flat on his back, she nevertheless
gave him a go-ahead gesture.

He was, after all, a guest.  Besides, it seemed prudent just to let him
have his say.  Maybe then he'd drop the bloody subject.

"The point I want to make, sweetheart, is that I've decided I'm not
going to sleep with you."

Nora's temper flared like a match in the night.  "And I suppose you'd
be thinking it's your decision to make in the first place?"

Telling herself she didn't care about his damn comfort, that it was
only her sheets she was trying to save, she yanked his boots off.  They
were cowboy boots, which brought her earlier Western-movie fantasy
tumbling back.

"If I wanted you, it sure as hell would be my decision."

"Do you always get what you want?"  It wasn't exactly a challenge. Nora
was genuinely curious.

"When it comes to women?  Always."  His eyes cleared.  Nora looked down
into those fathomless midnight depths and, feeling like a bog butterfly
pinned to a cork, had the impression Quinn was giving her a warning.
"But you don't have to worry, sweetheart.  You're not my type."

Even as she told herself it was for the best, she felt a prick of
feminine annoyance at being so easily dismissed.

"And isn't that a coincidence," she said briskly, throwing the quilt
over him.  "Since you're not my type, either."

She held her breath, almost expecting God to send a lightning bolt
through the thatched roof to strike her dead for telling such an
outrageous falsehood.  Because unfortunately, from the way her body had
grown warm in proximity to his, it appeared that Quinn Gallagher was
very much her type.

Quinn arched a sardonic brow, but didn't challenge her lie, which
relieved Nora greatly.  "Then we shouldn't have any problem, should
we?"

"None at all."  If only that was true.  Nora had the sinking feeling
this brash American was going to provide a very large problem indeed.
She reached out and turned off the bedside lamp, throwing the room into
darkness.  "Good night, Mr.  Gallagher."

"Good night, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick."  His deep voice echoed the formality
in hers.  He'd already begun snoring by the time she reached the
door.

She moved down the hall to the small room that, thanks to her father,
would serve as her bedroom for the next four weeks.  She washed her
face and brushed her teeth as quietly as possible in the adjoining
bathroom she was forced to share with her boarder.

Since it was chilly in the unheated room, she undressed quickly,
changing into a long cream flannel nightgown and a pair of
gray-and-white caterpillar-striped wool socks Fionna had knit for her
last Christmas.  Then, as she knelt beside the bed the way she had
every night since childhood, Nora, who was not normally a petty person,
derived some small mean satisfaction from the idea that come morning,
Quinn Gallagher would be suffering one hell of a hangover.  Chapter
Five

The Devil's in the Whiskey

Quinn awoke to the sound of birds chirping and sheep bleating.  He was
sprawled on his back on the bed, still in the clothes he'd worn on the
plane--which reeked of cigarette and peat smoke--his head pounding like
the bass drum in a marching band.  Not yet wanting to risk opening his
eyes, which felt sandpaper scratchy, he ran his tongue over teeth as
fuzzy as moss-covered rocks.

While he might have the mother of all hangovers, the prodigious amount
of alcohol he'd drunk last night had not, unfortunately, impaired his
memory.  He recalled everything about the night before, including the
fact that he'd made an ass of himself by hitting on Nora Fitzpatrick.

In between fanciful stories of banshees, warriors and revolution, Brady
Joyce had waxed eloquent about his widowed daughter, clearly a man
prone to over embellishment  Quinn, upon first stumbling out of the
patrol car last night, had discovered that perhaps for the first time
in the man's life, Brady had been guilty of understatement.

Nora Fitzpatrick's face, haloed by a wavy cloud of hair as bright as
the cozy peat fire burning in the parlor hearth, had brought to mind a
pre-Christian Celtic goddess.  Her eyes were a soft mystical green that
could have washed off the velvet hills of the countryside.  And her
mouth!  At first sight of her lush unpainted lips, he'd felt an instant
desire to taste them.

Quinn had no intention of apologizing for experiencing a sexual
attraction.  His approach, however, had definitely lacked subtlety.

She'd looked somehow familiar, but remembering the tug of recognition
he'd experienced when he'd first seen the country from the plane, Quinn
had discounted the sensation.

One thing he hadn't been able to discount was that momentary flash of
shared sexual awareness, when he'd caught a glimpse of something in her
eyes, something he couldn't quite put a finger on.  It couldn't be
inexperience, since she had, after all, been married.  She'd even had a
child, he recalled Brady telling him.  A son.

Innocence, perhaps?

Whatever it was, even tanked as he'd been, every instinct Quinn
possessed had told him that Nora Fitzpatrick was trouble.  With a
capital T.

"No point in borrowing trouble," he muttered, quoting his mother, who'd
always possessed a natural knack for doing exactly that.  "The widow
Fitzpatrick is off-limits."

He'd no sooner stated the vow when he heard a whimper he first thought
might have come from him.  Gingerly opening one eye, he came
face-to-face with a huge furry gray, white and black muzzle and a pair
of limpid brown eyes.

"Either Brady has taken to parking a Buick in the bedroom, or you're
the biggest damn dog in The land."

The beast whimpered again, a thin sound more suited to some toy breed a
tenth its size, then self-consciously looked away.

"You can't be shy."

One ear cocked.  But the dog still refused to meet Quinn's gaze.

He reached out, caught hold of the muzzle and turned the fuzzy face
back toward him.  "Hell, don't tell me I hurt your feelings."

He'd never had a dog.  The closest he'd ever come to having a pet was
the field mouse he'd captured when he was seven and his family had been
living in a trailer outside Apache Junction, Arizona.  Using money
earned running errands for a local bookie, he'd bought a hamster cage
from K-mart, which he hid in a kitchen cupboard.  Since his mother had
never been one to cook, it had seemed the safest place.

He'd kept the mouse for nearly a week, feeding it limp lettuce from a
nearby Safeway Dumpster.  Unfortunately his father had discovered it
while searching for a carton of cigarettes, cussed him out royally,
then whipped him with a belt that had left welts for two weeks.  Years
later he still had the scars from the buckle to remind him of that
day.

The mouse had fared even worse.  His father had suffocated it in a
plastic bag, then tossed it outside for the feral desert cats to tear
apart.

"You realize, of course," Quinn said to the dog now, "you're too big to
be such a candy-ass."

The dog rolled brown eyes beneath furry beetled brows.

"I'm not going to hurt you, dammit."

Another whimper.  And if a dog could look dubious, this one was
definitely pulling it off.  Quinn shook his head in disgust, then
wished he hadn't when boulders started tumbling around inside.

"Lord, we're a pitiful pair," he muttered, crawling out of the double
bed.

Although his legs felt as if he were walking on the deck of a rolling
ship, Quinn managed to make his way into the adjoining bathroom, which
smelled vaguely of flowers, followed by the wolfhound who trailed a
safe three feet behind.  One look at the haggard face in the mirror
assured him he looked every bit as bad as he felt.

He opened the medicine cabinet, found a bottle of aspirin, poured three
of them into his palm and swallowed them dry.  He found a new
toothbrush and a bar of soap still in its wrapper, realized that Nora
Fitzpatrick must have left them for him, and decided the woman, while
still Trouble, was a saint.

He brushed his fuzzy teeth, splashed cold water onto his face, then
took a long hot shower that filled the small room with steam and
smoothed out some of the kinks in his hungover and jet-lagged body. The
towel he wrapped around his hips was a far cry from the thick
Egyptian-cotton ones he was accustomed to, but it was pleasantly soft
and smelled like sunshine.

By the time he'd shaved with the razor he found in the cabinet, he was
beginning to feel as if he just might live.

"So what do you think?"  he asked the dog, who was sitting on its
haunches watching his every move.  "Feel up to some breakfast?"

When the oversize tail began thumping on the floor and the huge pink
tongue lolled, Quinn decided he'd just found the dog's weakness.

"Guess that's the magic word."  Ignoring the lightning bolts behind his
eyes, he bent and rubbed the massive multihued streaked head.  "The
room's supposed to come with two meals a day.  Let's go see what's on
the menu."

Fearing he'd have to wear yesterday's clothes, which could definitely
use an airing, Quinn was gratified to see his luggage lined up just
inside the bedroom door.  Apparently the friendly police officer who'd
arrived to take Brady and him to the farm had rescued the suitcases
from his rental car.  As he pulled on a pair of clean briefs, Quinn
decided a donation to the local police benevolent fund was definitely
in order.

He made his way down the stairs; the dog, appearing a bit more
emboldened, stayed close on his heels, nails clicking on the wood.

The kitchen could have appeared on the cover of some country-living
magazine: a bright blue-plaid oilcloth covered the round table, and the
unmatched wooden chairs surrounding the table had been painted
school-bus yellow.  The window had been left open to admit moist air
that carried the fragrance of freshly mowed grass and the distant scent
of the sea; white lace curtains swayed in the early-morning breeze.

He found an old-fashioned aluminum percolator sitting on the stove. The
note taped to it informed him that the family was at mass and would be
home by ten o'clock at the latest.

"I'll be making breakfast," the neat convent-schoolgirl script assured
him.  "But if you wake before I return, there's porridge on the stove,
a tin of coffee on the counter, and you're welcome to anything you find
in the icebox."  It was formally signed, Nora Fitzpatrick.

Quinn glanced up at the round-faced wooden clock on the wall.  If he
had to wait another forty-five minutes for coffee, he just might die,
after all.

"Looks as if we're on our own, sport."  The oatmeal, kept warm in a
double boiler and too reminiscent of youthful farm days, held little
appeal.

When he opened the refrigerator door, the dog grinned.  "How about some
bacon?"  Quinn took the white-wrapped bundle from the meat compartment
and a blue bowl of speckled eggs from a wire shelf.  "Do you prefer
your eggs scrambled or fried?"

The dog barked eagerly.

"Yeah, me, too," Quinn said.  "Fried it is."

The bacon was thick and spicy, more like ham than the bacon Quinn was
used to back home.  Both he and the dog agreed it was delicious.  The
oversize eggs might have ended up a little crispy at the edges, but
neither of them was in a mood to complain.  Quinn ate three, enjoying
the sweet taste of the butter he'd fried them in; the dog inhaled
two.

The only failure was the coffee.  It was as thick as the black peat
bogs Quinn had passed on the way to Castlelough.

"Peat would probably taste a damn sight better," he told the dog, whose
morose expression seemed to be offering canine sympathy.

Although he usually drank his coffee black, he tried cutting it with
the rich cream he found in the refrigerator, then tossed in a heaping
spoonful of sugar.  He took another tentative sip, decided it wasn't
going to get any better, but in desperate need of caffeine, downed it
in long swallows, anyway, like bitter-tasting medicine.

The caffeine clicked in almost instantly, putting a slightly sharper
edge on the fog surrounding his brain.  Quinn decided some fresh air
might do the rest.

"So how about giving me a tour?"  he suggested to the dog after he'd
washed and dried the dishes and put them away.

Filming didn't begin for another two days, and since he'd left the
rented Mercedes outside the pub, Quinn figured he was stuck here until
the family returned and someone could drive him into Castlelough to
retrieve it.  Then again, he reconsidered, from what he remembered of
last night's drive, it wasn't that far into town.  He could probably
walk there.  Later, after he felt more human.

When he opened the door that was split in two Dutch-style, the dog
raced out ahead of him.

The house he'd only glanced at last night was a basic two-story
farmhouse with a rounded yellow thatched roof.  It was in need of a
fresh whitewash, but the baskets of crimson flowers hanging on either
side of the blue door added cheerful splashes of color.  Several red
hens pecked in the gravel in front of the house, green herbs jostled
for space in a small garden, the white sheets on the clothesline
fluttered in the morning breeze, and a rutted dirt driveway led to a
wooden gate.

Last night's rain had stopped, leaving the sky clear save for the wisps
of blue smoke coming from the

chimney and a few clouds that meandered overhead looking like shaggy
lambs.  The land folded out in green fields where herds of white-faced
cows and flocks of sheep grazed.  The heads and shoulders of the sheep
had been marked for identification with various Day-Glo colors, and the
blue, orange, chartreuse and scarlet gave the shaggy animals the look
of punk rockers.

Since the nearby barn brought back more memories of those harsh
foster-care days he was determined to forget, Quinn went back into the
house to unpack.

Nora stood outside the gray stone church, surprised to discover that by
allowing one of the Americans into her house she'd become a celebrity
of sorts herself.  Everyone, it seemed, wanted to know what the famous
Mr.  Quinn Gallagher was like.

"We didn't have much opportunity to talk," she replied evasively to
Father O'Malley's inquiry regarding her boarder.  The priest was a
young man with a tall, asparagus-stalk-thin body.  The first time Nora
had watched the father cutting peat, she'd realized the cleric was far
more vigorous than his bookish ascetic appearance suggested.  "He
arrived late."

"I heard he spent the evening at The Rose.  Do you think he has a
drinking problem?"  the priest asked with a frown.

Since it was obvious that the men at the pub had been telling tales,
Nora decided there was little point in trying to avoid the question. "I
worried about that.  But Mr.  Gallagher assures me it was an
aberration.  And he was, after all, with Brady."

"That does explain a great deal," the priest allowed.  "However, if he
gives you any trouble, Nora, I could always find room for him at the
rectory."

"Thank you, Father.  That's very kind.  But I'm sure he won't be any
problem."  With that lie stinging her tongue, she smiled and drifted
away, hoping she could gather up the family and get back to the farm
before the troublesome American awoke and demanded his breakfast.

Yesterday's storm had passed, leaving behind a brilliant blue sky that
seemed like a benediction.  As she drove back to the farm, Nora decided
to take the glorious day as a sign that her next encounter with her
boarder would go more smoothly.

Quinn finished putting away his clothes in the old oak chest and had
returned to the kitchen to take another stab at coffee making when he
heard the crunch of car tires on the gravel outside.

Moments later the door burst open and two children--a boy and a girl
who appeared to be about the same age--ran into the room, followed by a
pair of teenagers, then Fionna and Brady.  Bringing up the rear and
backlit by a sun that turned her hair to flame, was Nora Fitzpatrick.

She was wearing a high-necked heather-hued dress that stopped just a
bit above the knee and a well- worn blazer the color of rain.  If the
skirt had been a few inches longer, she could have been a nun.  When
she shrugged out of the blazer to hang it on a wooden hook beside the
door, Quinn discovered that the widow Fitzpatrick's body, which last
night had been hidden beneath a bulky sweater, was far more curvaceous
than he'd first thought.  And the softly clinging dress was anything
but nun like

A face of a convent girl and a body built for sin.

It was, he was discovering, a perilous combination.

The woman wasn't merely trouble.  She was pure

TNT.

And Quinn felt as if he'd just been handed a lit fuse.

She greeted him with a hesitant smile.  "So you're up," she said.  Her
scent, which made him think of making love in a meadow of wildflowers
during a soft summer rain, had entered the kitchen with her.

Deliberately, to prove to himself--and to her that he could, Quinn
aimed cool dark eyes at her exquisite face.  "I woke up about an hour
ago."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to fix you breakfast."

When she didn't look away from what other women had assured him was a
quelling stare, Quinn decided she might just be tougher than she
looked.

"The dog and I managed."

"The dog?"  She glanced down at the beast, who was lying beneath the
table, head on its forepaws, looking adoringly up at Quinn.  "Isn't
that amazing."  She tilted her head and studied him.  "You're obviously
a miracle worker."

"Maeve's afraid of everyone but my aunt Kate, my mam and me," the
younger boy volunteered.

He had a shock of dark hair, blue-black eyes and a scattering of
freckles across his face.  But even with the difference in coloring,
Quinn had no difficulty in recognizing him to be the grandson Brady had
boasted about.

"Her name is Maeve?"  Quinn asked.

"After the warrior queen of Connacht from the old stories.  It was
Mam's idea.  She thought being named after such a powerful person might
help give Maeve courage."

"Sounds reasonable to me," Quinn said with a sideways glance at Nora.
Her face curtained by her hair, she began taking cups down from the
open shelf.  "She seems like a great dog."

Admittedly, he might have been a bit of a bastard when it came to Nora.
But Quinn didn't have it in him to be cold to a child.  Especially one
forced to grow up without a father.  Not that having a father was any
real guarantee of happiness.

"I assume you're Rory."

"I'm sorry.  I should have introduced you to everyone," Nora said
before her son could answer.  "Rory,

this is Mr.  Gallagher."  She went on to introduce the other
children.

"I have all your books, Mr.  Gallagher," offered the tall gangly
teenage boy with the serious eyes she'd introduced as her brother
John.

"Call me Quinn."  Being called Mr.  Gallagher reminded him
uncomfortably of his father.  "And thanks for the support.  Your father
said your favorite is The Night of the Banshee."

"That was my favorite.  But I think I like The Lady of the Lake best
now.  And I especially like that you set it right here in
Castlelough."

"Perhaps you'd like to come watch some filming."

"Could I?  Really?"  It was such a small thing.  And offered without
thought.  But it obviously meant a great deal to John Joyce.

"How about me?"  This from the younger girl with the bright nest of
Orphan Annie curls.  Celia, Quinn remembered.  Which would make her the
child Brady's wife had died giving birth to.  "May I come, as well?"

Nora lit the stove, then shot a stern warning look over her shoulder as
she filled a kettle from the tap.  "That's enough, now," she said.  "I
won't be having you all pestering Mr.  Gallagher.  He's here to work on
his movie and is to be left alone."

"I don't mind," Quinn lied.  Although he was not usually diplomatic, he
could be when necessary.

Nora gave him a look that said she didn't believe him for a moment.
"You're a paying guest.  Don't you have a right not to be pestered to
death?"  Her voice lilted with the soft cadence of the Irish west.
"Would you be wanting some tea?"

"Of course he'll be wanting tea," Brady said, entering into the
conversation.  He looked hale and hearty, revealing not an iota of
hangover.  Yet further proof, Quinn considered grimly, that life wasn't
fair.

"Nora makes the best tea in the county," Brady assured Quinn.  "Stout
enough to trot a mouse across, it is."

"Now there's a thought," Quinn murmured, watching as his words caused
the corners of her mouth to curl in a faint smile.  "Tea sounds good. I
tried making coffee, but I couldn't get the knack of boiling it."

"Didn't I tell you we should have bought one of those Mr.  Coffee
machines, Nora, darling?"  Brady said.

"Really, tea's fine," Quinn insisted.

Everyone but Nora was watching him again, as if he were some sort of
unique animal.  A unicorn, perhaps.  Or the creature in the lake.

"I knew a Donovan Gallagher when I was a girl," Fionna said.  "He had
family in Donegal.  Would you be knowing of them?"

She tilted her head and studied him.  "You have the look of the boy I
knew.  Perhaps while you're in

Ireland, you might be wanting to take a visit to Donegal and--"

"No."  Realizing he'd snapped at her, Quinn softened his expression.
And his tone.  "I'm afraid I'm going to be very busy working on the
film.  I doubt I'll have time for sight-seeing."

"Ah, isn't that a shame, now?"  Fionna's direct gaze told him that she
suspected there might be more to his refusal than a scheduling problem.
"To come all this way from America and not see your family.  perhaps
next time," she suggested.

"Next time," he agreed.  Wanting to move the conversation away from
himself, Quinn turned back to Rory.  "So, what grade are you in?"

"Oh, I'm in first form."

Quinn remembered attending three different schools in three different
states during his first-grade year.  He also remembered the broken arm
his father had given him when he hadn't fetched the bottle of Coors
fast enough that September they'd lived in Boulder.  "Do you like
school?"

"Aye."  The small freckled forehead creased.  "But I'm not so sure
about next year."

"Why not?"

"Because when you're in second form, everything changes.  You have to
learn cursive, and start learning about the lives of the saints, and
you become culp ... culp..."

"He's trying to say culpable," Celia broke in with a toss of her head
that suggested feminine superiority.

"Culpable?"

"You get reason," Celia explained.  "It means you become responsible.
You can't say you didn't know any better because by the time you're in
second form, you're supposed to know the difference between good and
evil.  So all your sins go against your permanent record."

"I can see where that might be a worry."  Quinn decided he didn't ever
want to get a look at his permanent record.  "But I can't believe you
could have all that many sins," he assured Rory.

"Everything's a bloody sin."  Mary spoke up for the first time, her
dark kohl-lined eyes flashing.  Seeing through the makeup the girl had
spread like Spackle on her face, Quinn realized she was going to grow
up to be a real beauty.  "Everything pleasurable, that is."

"And what kind of words are those from a girl who's decided to become a
nun?"  Fionna demanded.

"I'm not going to be a nun."

"Yesterday you said you had a vocation," Rory reminded her.

"That was yesterday.  Can't a girl change her mind?"

"Mary wanted to become a nun because Jack asked Sharon Fitzgerald to
the May Dance," Rory informed Quinn.

"Sounds like Jack's loss."  Quinn's complimentary words caused color to
flood into the teenage girl's pale face.

"That's what I told her," Fionna said.

"Sharon sleeps around," Celia volunteered.  "Which is why Jack asked
her to the dance, instead of our Mary."

That was all it took to make the teenager burst into tears and run from
the room.

"Don't be minding the girl's histrionics," Fionna said
matter-of-factly.  "She's at an age, don't you know."

"It's difficult being a teenager," Quinn agreed.  Realizing he was
wading once more into murky conversational waters, he was relieved when
the kitchen door opened again and an ebony-haired woman accompanied by
two children entered the room.

"Good morning, all."  While the greetings the others returned were
cheery enough, Quinn thought he detected a sudden tension in the
kitchen.  Nora, especially, seemed to be studying the newcomer
carefully.

"I'm Kate O'Sullivan."  She held out a friendly hand.  Her flesh was
pale, her grip strong, her smile warm.  "And you'd be Quinn Gallagher.
And these two are my daughter and my son.  I enjoy your books.  Even if
they are marketed all wrong."

"Oh?"  Just what he needed.  Another critic.

If she heard the faint warning note in Quinn's voice, Kate ignored it.
"You don't write horror of course."

"I don't?"

"Surely you know you don't?  You write social commentary.  In fact,
your stories remind me, in many ways, of Jonathan Swift."

"I'm flattered."

"Why should you be when it's the truth?  It doesn't take a degree in
literature to understand that The lady of the Lake is an allegory about
prejudice, the overreach of science and the paranoia that can so easily
run rampant in small isolated villages such as our own."

Quinn laughed, liking her immediately.  "The woman's obviously a
genius.  So how would you like a job as my Irish publicity rep?"

"I think you'd be in trouble," she countered.  "Being that there's many
in these parts who wouldn't buy a hook just because I recommended
it."

"Aunt Kate's a witch," Rory explained.

"A druid witch," Celia tacked on.

Quinn was amused by the faint challenge that rose in Kate O'Sullivan's
blue eyes at this revelation.  "As it happens, I've been playing with
the idea of writing a witch heroine," he said mildly.  "Perhaps you'll
make time to consult with me while I'm here."

It was her turn to laugh.  "And wouldn't that start tongues wagging?"
Her smile was warm, belying the stereotype of the wicked witch of fairy
tales.  "Of course I'll consult with you, Mr.  Gallagher, if only to
make certain you get it right."

"There you go again."  Nora smiled with affection at her sister-in-law
as she placed a flowered teacup in front of Quinn.  "Stirring things up
again."

"The gods gave us all unique talents, Nora.  Unfortunately stirring
things up seems to be what I seem to do best."  Kate gave a slight
sigh, then pulled out a chair across the table from Quinn, picked up
her little red-haired daughter Brigid and plunked her on her lap.

Unlike the gregarious Rory Fitzpatrick, Kate O'Sullivan's son, standing
almost behind his mother's chair, reminded Quinn vaguely of Maeve.

"Hi."  Quinn held out his hand.  "My name's Quinn.  What's yours?"

The boy shot a quick wary look up at his mother.

"Answer the man, darling," Kate coaxed gently.

"Jamie."  He stared down at the floor.  "Jamie O'Sullivan."

The surname, which he hadn't paid all that much attention to when Kate
O'Sullivan had introduced herself, rang a bell.  It was a common enough
name in Ireland certainly, but Quinn knew without a single doubt that
the bad tempered, foulmouthed drunk in the pub was this little boy's
father.  He also knew that the reason Jamie refused to shake his hand
was not so much because he was shy.  He was afraid.

And why not?  Quinn thought grimly, knowing all too well how painful a
man's big rough hands could be.

He glanced up at Nora and read the regretful answer in her eyes.  And
in that suspended moment of shared concern for Kate O'Sullivan and her
children, Quinn--who'd spent his entire life deftly avoiding
involvement--felt as if he'd just taken a fatal misstep into
quicksand.

Chapter Six

In Fortune's Hand

Intending to retrieve his car, Quinn had put on his jacket and was
headed for the front door when Brady called to him.

"From the looks of you, you'd be going out somewhere."

"I thought I'd walk into town."  Quinn entered the book-filled room,
which looked out over green rolling pastures and the distant sea
beyond.  The sun was brighter in this country renowned for rain than
Quinn had expected.  "I'm going to need my car to get to the shoot at
the lake tomorrow."

"Oh, you can't be doing that, my boy."  Brady put down the book of
Gaelic folktales he was reading on a nearby table.  "It's much too far
to be walking.  I'd offer to drive you myself, but I've a great deal of
paperwork to do.  The bills don't pay themselves, don't you know.  And
poor Nora, as lovely and sweet as she is, has never had a head for
figures."

He pushed himself from the overstuffed chair and began rummaging around
in an old desk, finally locating a green ledger book.

"It's no problem," Quinn said.  "The walk will do me good."  Especially
after the unusually large breakfast he'd shared with Maeve.

"Truly, there's no need for you to be doing that," Brady said quickly.
"Nora will be more than happy to drive you back into the village to
fetch your automobile."

"I don't want to disturb her Sunday."

"You won't be disturbing her at all," Brady assured him.  "Aren't you a
guest?  She wouldn't be having you walk all that way into
Castlelough."

Quinn decided not to mention that he ran longer distances on a daily
basis back home.

"Thanks for the suggestion."

"You're more than welcome."  Brady looked up from sharpening a yellow
pencil with a penknife and beamed his approval.  "Enjoy your Sunday
drive, now."

Quinn was on his way to the kitchen when he passed the parlor and saw
Fionna sitting in front of the lace-covered window, knitting needles
clacking.

"I expect you'll be wanting a ride into the village to fetch your
automobile?"  she called out to him.

He paused in the doorway.  "Actually I was planning to walk.  Brady
suggested Nora, but--"

"And isn't that clever of my son to think of her?"  Fionna's smile,
which echoed Brady's, set internal alarms blaring.  "Our Nora's an
excellent driver.  And you couldn't have a better tourist guide."

"Surely your granddaughter has better things to do than chauffeur me
around."

"Now don't you be worrying your head about that."  The knitting needles
continued to clack with the speed of dueling rapiers in an old Errol
Flynn movie.  "The family can take up her chores for this one day."
With a brisk nod of her bright red-gold head, Fionna declared the
subject closed.

It crossed Quinn's mind that Nora's father and grandmother seemed awful
damn eager to get the two of them alone together.  He wondered idly if
they could actually be setting a trap for him, the rich Yank.

It wasn't as if such schemes hadn't succeeded before: get an American
to marry you so you can get a green card to live legally in the States,
then bring over your entire family on the next boat.  Or plane, these
days, he supposed.

The idea almost made him laugh.  Fionna and Brady Joyce could set all
the snares they chose.  But in this case their prey was far too wary to
be captured.

He'd planned to sneak out the kitchen door without being noticed, but
found Nora where he'd left her earlier.  The O'Sullivans had apparently
departed and she'd changed from the dress she'd worn to church into a
pair of jeans, a creamy sweater and a white apron.

She was kneading bread.  The warm smell of the yeast coupled with the
sight of her slender arms elbow deep in the mound of dough made Quinn's
gut twist with something indefinable.

"May I help you?"  She glanced up at him with a smile, but her eyes
were guarded.  As well they should be, Quinn thought grimly.  The widow
Fitzpatrick was obviously intelligent enough to realize he was way out
of her league.  "Would you be liking a cup of tea?  Or, perhaps, some
coffee?"

"Nothing, thanks.  I need to go into town to get my car.  Brady
suggested you'd be able to drive me, but I assured him I can walk."

"Of course I'll be taking you."  Again, her smile was pleasant, but
self-protective barriers remained firmly in place in her eyes.  "If you
don't mind waiting until I get this bread in the pan."

"I don't mind at all."  He turned a chair around, straddled it and
leaned his arms on the top of the seat back.  "I've never seen bread
being made."

She laughed at that.  "What a deprived life you've led, then, Mr.
Gallagher."

"I'm beginning to think you might be right, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick."  The
movement of her hands pushing at the elastic white dough was both homey
and sensual at the same time.  "I really hate to intrude on your
day."

"You're no intrusion at all.  I enjoy driving.  And it's a lovely day,
after all."

"Your father said he'd take me if he wasn't so busy with his ledger
book," Quinn said conversationally.

"Ledger book?"  Nora's hands stilled for a moment, and she glanced at
him in surprise.  "The farm account book?"

"That's what it looked like."

"Well."  She shook her head and began pounding harder at the dough.

"Something wrong?"

"Wrong?"  She was refusing to look at him, her voice had taken on a
sharp edge, and she'd begun attacking the dough as if she bore it a
personal grudge.  "What could be wrong with a man tending to
business?"

What indeed?  Quinn wondered.  But something definitely had her ire up.
Electricity was practically radiating from every pore.

"Well, that's done for now."  She turned the dough into two oblong
pans, covered them with a cotton dish towel, then brushed her palms
together to dust off the flour.  "It'll just take me a few minutes to
wash up and--"

"I'll do that," a voice offered from the doorway.  Both Quinn and Nora
turned to see Mary.

"You're volunteering to do dishes?"  Nora's eyes narrowed.  "Saints
preserve us," she said with an exaggerated brogue that reminded Quinn
of her father's.  "Ring up Father O'Malley right away, because it's
sure we're witnessing a miracle."

"I've done dishes before.  Lots of times," Mary countered with a toss
of her dark head.  "Gran sent me in to finish washing up so you and Mr.
Gallagher could leave for the village."

"And isn't that thoughtful of your grandmother," Nora said dryly.  She
washed the remaining bits of dough off her hands beneath the tap, dried
them on her apron, then took it off and hung it on a wooden hook on the
wall.  "If you're ready, then, Mr.  Gallagher."  After plucking a set
of keys from another hook, she walked out the kitchen door, leaving
Quinn to follow.

"What the hell is that?"  He stared at the huge garishly painted old
Caddy sitting in the driveway where earlier red-feathered chickens had
scratched.

Nora arched a brow.  "Are you telling me you've never seen a
miracle-mobile, Mr.  Gallagher?"

"This is a first.  Is it yours?"  He assured himself that he'd survived
far worse in his lifetime than being seen by any of the crew in what
looked like an amateur artist's rendition of the Sistine Chapel
ceiling.

"Don't worry, it's Fionna's.  Mine is the blue one parked behind it. We
fetched it from the pub after mass this morning."

Thank God.  "Nice car," he murmured.

Nora laughed in a way that told him she knew exactly how relieved he
was feeling.  "Thank you.  a wee bit boring compared to Fionna's.  But
I like it."

The car, like most he'd seen in Ireland, was a compact sedan that could
probably fit into the rear of the Chevy Suburban parked next to the
Porsche in his three-car garage back in Monterey.

"I really am sorry to inconvenience you this way," he said into the
well of strained silence surrounding them as they drove through the
rolling green hills.  It was obvious that her brief humor over his
reaction to her grandmother's colorful Cadillac had faded, leaving her
still upset about something.

"It's no inconvenience," Nora snapped.  Then, as if realizing how brisk
she'd sounded, she sighed and rubbed at her temple, as if trying to
ward off a headache.  "I'm sorry.  Truly I don't mind driving you into
the village, Mr.  Gallagher.  It's just that I'm a little put out at my
family at the moment."

"For throwing us together."

She shot him a surprised look.  "You knew that's what they were
doing?"

He watched the color--like wild primroses--rise in her cheeks, tried to
remember the last time he'd been with a woman capable of blushing and
came up blank.  Even as he reminded himself that innocence held no
appeal, Quinn found the rosy hue enticing.

"It was pretty obvious."

"I'm sorry."  She combed a not very steady hand through her riot of
curls.  In the midday light her hair glowed like a burning bush.  Her
wrists were narrow, her fingers slender, her short nails un lacquered
once again bringing to mind a nun.  A sensible man would give her a
wide berth.  Quinn reminded himself he'd always considered himself a
sensible man.

"It's not right that you should have to deal with their foolish
matchmaking schemes while you're a paying guest."

"I've survived worse."

"But you shouldn't have to, you see."

"Why don't you let me worry about it?"  he suggested mildly.

"It's just so..  embarrassing.  And annoying.  As if I'm some
over-the-hill spinster who can't get a man on my own."

Since she'd practically handed him a gilt-edged invitation, Quinn
allowed himself the luxury of an in-depth perusal of the woman sitting
so close to him.  His eyes, safely hidden behind the dark lenses of his
sunglasses, looked her over with slow deliberation, from the top of her
fiery head to her sneaker-clad feet, where he found a surprisingly
whimsical touch--white cotton socks trimmed with lace.  And although he
knew his mind had no business going off in such a dangerous direction,
he wondered if she was wearing more white lace beneath those jeans and
that sweater.

"The gold wedding band on your finger proves you're no spinster.  And
I've no doubt there are more than a few men in Ireland who'd want you,
Mrs.  Fitzpatrick."

The color in her cheeks deepened.  "I'll be taking that as a
compliment, Mr.  Gallagher."  Although her voice remained steady, her
eyes had gotten that guarded look again.  "Especially since you've
already assured me I'm not your type of woman."

He'd been wondering if she was going to bring that up.  "I suppose this
is where I apologize for my boorish behavior.  Although being drunk's
no excuse, I can't remember the last time I got so wasted.  Believe me,
I usually display a helluva lot more finesse when I'm seducing a
woman."

"And are you in the habit of seducing women who aren't your type?"

Quinn gave a harsh bark of laughter.  "Hardly.  In fact, last night was
a first."

"It was probably the drink," she offered helpfully.  "Probably," he
agreed, not believing it for a minute.  "I suppose that's what I get
for trying to keep up with all the toasts."

Quinn had quickly discovered that when anyone in the pub offered to
stand for a drink, it was bad manners to refuse.  Then, of course, you
had to return the compliment.  Next it would be someone else's turn.
And on and on until he was amazed anyone was left standing at the end
of the evening.

"My father doesn't usually drink so much," Nora volunteered, as if
needing to defend Brady's behavior.  "It's his habit to drink a pint or
two and get his enjoyment from telling his tales."

"Alcohol's a slippery slope.  Sometimes people can lose their
footing."

"True enough."  She slanted him another curious glance.  "You sound as
if you have some personal experience with such things."

"My mother was a drunk."  Quinn had never told another living soul
about his mother.  He wondered why the hell he'd just told Nora
Fitzpatrick.

She fell silent.  And seemingly thoughtful as she drove down the ribbon
of road past hedgerows thick with lace like flowers.  The fruit trees
blooming in yards along the roadway looked like pink and white bouquets
against the blue sky.  The windows of the car were open, allowing in
air so fresh Quinn felt almost as if he could drink it.

They passed a donkey-pulled cart carrying ten- gallon milk cans,
headed, Quinn supposed, to the creamery in Castlelough; amazingly a
small dog stood on the donkey's back.  The driver of the cart, an
elderly man wearing a tweed suit, billed cap and green Wellies, seemed
delighted to see them and waved his hand enthusiastically.  Nora lifted
a hand to wave back.

"And your father?"  she asked Quinn at length.  "Did he have a liking
for spirits, as well?"

"My father could have been the poster boy for

AA.  If he'd ever seen fit to attend a meeting, that is.  Or go a day
without a drink."

She glanced over at him again, her exquisite face grave.  "I'm
sorry."

"So was I."  Quinn hated the sympathy--and

"And now?"

worse yet, pity--that seemed to soften her tone.

Out of longtime habit, he shut his mind to thoughts of his father,
whose brutal blood tainted his own veins.

"And now I don't think about it."  He gave her a hard level look.  His
curt tone, thick with a tension he didn't bother to conceal, declared
the subject closed.

She should just drive Quinn Gallagher into Castlelough, drop him off at
The Irish Rose to retrieve his car and return home to finish her
chores, Nora thought, biting her lip at his curtness.  After all, the
bread would need punching down soon, there was laundry to do--the last
time Mary had taken on the chore, she'd tossed in one of Rory's
T-shirts and turned all Brady's underwear pink--and, of course, dinner
to prepare.

It shouldn't bother her that the man sitting beside her in the suddenly
too-close confines of the car seemed to be mired in unpleasant memories
of his past.  He'd been less than charming since his arrival late last
night, and the simple truth was that she'd only rented him a room.  She
was under no obligation to provide guided tours of the county she
loved, con herself with his brooding or care that he seemed to be
filled with dark shadows.

Quinn Gallagher meant nothing to her but a rental fee that would keep
the farm afloat for the next few months.  Whatever internal demons the
American might be fighting meant nothing to her.  She didn't care about
him or his moods.

The devil she didn't.

Nora sighed and thought once again how useless it was to fight nature.
Hadn't she learned that lesson with Conor?  Living in the west was
living poor, and Conor, born on a neighboring farm where Kate still
lived, had been determined to outrun and outride poor.

As for herself, so long as she could keep the bankers at bay, Nora had
never minded not having money for the extras Conor had seemed to need.
Her husband, who'd set his sights even higher than Dublin, had jokingly
called her his little country mouse.  Indeed, Nora could more easily
imagine traveling on a spaceship to the moon than moving away from the
family farm.

Conor had been bold, daring and restless as the wind.

He'd also been a wee bit self-centered.  But since that had been part
of the cocky confidence that contributed greatly to his charm, she'd
never complained.  Not even when he hadn't managed to make it home for
Rory's birth.

He'd been competing in the Olympic trials at the time.  And although
she'd understood the importance of the event, Nora couldn't deny that
she wished he'd been by her side when she'd brought their only son into
the world.

At the time, Kate, who was not nearly as unforgiving of her brother's
behavior, had accused Nora of being a natural-born caretaker, always
willing to put her own wishes aside in order to concentrate on the
whims of others.  Nora hadn't argued then, and truth be told, couldn't
argue the fact now.

She had, indeed, been a caretaker all of her life, and a caretaker
she'd undoubtedly die.  Normally the personal rewards made the
sacrifices worthwhile.  She feared that Quinn Gallagher might prove to
be the exception to the rule.

"Shall I show you the lake?"  she asked into the prolonged silence.

"The lake?"  Appearing to pull himself momentarily out of whatever
gloomy place he was wall owing in, Quinn looked over at her with
surprise.

"Lough Caislean."  She called the lake by its Irish name.

He lifted a brow.  "An, where the famed monster lurks."

"The creature," she corrected quietly, hoping his words didn't mean the
movie people were planning to portray the Lady as some voracious killer
from the deep lagoon.  Like in those grainy black-and-white Japanese
Godzilla films John had been so taken with when he'd been Rory's age.

"Creature, monster."  He waved a hand dismissively.  "What's the
difference?"

Nora thought about that for a moment.  "I suppose it's a matter of
semantics.  And respect."

He laughed again, a rough rusty sound that reminded her of the nearly
bald tires of Fionna's miracle-mobile running over a gravel road.  It
occurred to Nora that Quinn Gallagher was not a man who allowed himself
to laugh often.

"Are you saying you believe the Lady exists?"  he asked.

She shrugged, feeling foolish.  She dearly wished they'd not gotten
onto this topic.  "I've never seen her myself.  But I respect others'
beliefs."

She did not mention that Rory was one of those who insisted he'd not
only seen, but talked with the Lady.  Since it seemed to give him
comfort and she'd had her own imaginary playmate when she was his age,
she'd never been overly concerned with her son having the lough beastie
for a best friend.

"That's not exactly the same thing."

"I suppose I believe that myths are capable of possessing their own
reality.  And if there is a Lady in the lake--and I'm not saying I
believe there is, mind you--" she shot him a stern look "--she deserves
the same consideration we give any of God's creatures.  Including a
rich and famous American horror novelist."

Having tacked on the last without taking time to censor her words, Nora
feared he'd take offense, but he surprised her by flashing a grin that
came and went so quickly she thought perhaps she'd imagined it.

"Point taken."

The brief argument, if it could, indeed, even be called an argument,
appeared to have burned off his dark mood, like a July sun burns off
cold morning fog.

"I think I'd like to see the lake," Quinn said, "if you have time."

Although holding a grudge was nearly a national pastime, Nora had never
been able to keep a decent pique going.  She smiled, pleased at the
opportunity to share one of her favorite places with him.  "We have a
saying here in Ireland, Mr.  Gallagher--when God made time, he' made
plenty of it."

Chapter Seven

Whatever You Say, Say Nothing

Less than five minutes later Nora pulled off to the side of the road.
"It's a bit of a walk.  But a lovely one, just the same."

"I could use some exercise."  Once again Quinn figured the fresh air
might help banish the remnants of his hangover and jet lag.

"It might help clear away any lingering Jameson fog," she said with a
smile, revealing similar thinking.

Quinn started to remind her she hadn't locked the car door, then
realized there was probably no need, which left him feeling a lot like
Dorothy after the tornado had blown her out of Kansas.  Ireland might
not exactly be Oz.  But it sure as hell wasn't California, either.

They passed a cemetery like the ones he'd seen while driving around in
circles, a somber place of high crosses standing like silent sentinels
and rounded gravestones covered with pale green moss.  A few of the
more recent stones had been decorated with arrangements of colorful
plastic flowers in domed containers.

The narrow well-worn path meandered through the hills like a tangled
fishing line, crossing meadows lush with blue lupine, wild roses and
strawberries.  After climbing for about ten minutes, they came upon a
mound of earth blanketed with yellow poppies and decorated with
stones.

"It's a cairn," Nora explained, "built about five thousand years ago.
There are quite a few of them around this part of the country."

"It's a tomb, right?"

"Of sorts.  There's probably a passage below leading to a central
burial chamber.  The early ones believed in an afterlife, so they often
buried their loved ones with tools, weapons or household goods."

Quinn, who always prided himself on his research, knew about the
pre-Christian burial sites.  But reading about something in a dry
archeological text was vastly different from actually standing right
beside it.  This place hidden in the green folds of the mountain had
gone unchanged for millennia; memories of that long-ago heroic time and
shadows of a mysterious faith hovered over the site like ghosts
standing guard over an ancient past.

He paused and drank in the atmosphere, breathing deeply of air scented
with golden hollyhock and something else he could not quite define.
Then he rubbed at the tingling sensation at the back of his neck.

"I don't know if I believe in an afterlife," he said.  "But here... it
sure feels as if some spirits might have lingered on."  He could almost
hear the eerie sound of ghostly voices floating on the breeze.

Nora gave him a surprised look that quickly turned to pleasure.
"Sometimes, you know, I come here and talk to the early ones.  I tell
them my troubles, and strangely, things seem better when I leave.
Although I suspect it's just the telling, getting it off my chest, as
you Yanks would say, that lifts my spirits."

"That, or magic," Quinn suggested.

The soft color he was beginning to enjoy too much for comfort rose high
on her cheekbones again.  "Listen to me, going on so," she protested
with that soft cadence that strummed dangerous chords inside him.
"You'll be thinking I'm just a foolish cuichie."

Quinn lifted a brow.  "Cuichie?"

"It means a country person.  Usually a daft or stupid one."

"Ah."  He nodded and felt an unaccustomed smile tugging at the corners
of his mouth again.  "A bumpkin."  The breeze was blowing her hair in a
wild tangle around her flushed face in a way that put him in mind of a
Botticelli maiden.

"A bumpkin."  She appeared to consider that.  "Is that how you see me,
then?  As a fanciful and foolish country bumpkin?"

Fanciful she might be.  Foolish?  Quinn didn't think so.  Although a
more cautious woman would probably know enough to take off running
right about now.  Some errant strands of fiery silk blew across her
face.  When he reached out to brush them back, she went as still as one
of the stone crosses they'd passed earlier.

"I certainly don't consider you a bumpkin.  Although I have to admit
I've never met a woman who had the imagination to carry on
conversations with Stone Age ancestors."

This time the color flamed to the roots of her hair.  "We'd best be
continuing on if we want to reach the lake before it rains."

Unlike every photograph he'd ever seen of Ireland, there wasn't a cloud
to be seen anywhere in the robin's-egg blue sky.

"Good idea," he heard himself saying as she looked up at him, wary, but
fascinated, the way one might stare at a pretty, poisonous snake.  He
watched her exhale a brief shuddering breath.  Then, squaring her
slender shoulders, she turned away and resumed walking.

They left the trail, Nora scrambling over rocks as nimbly as one of the
black-legged sheep he could see grazing in distant meadows.  The
mountains they were walking over were ancient, headed toward dust.

Although they weren't as bold and breathtaking as the jagged mountains
he was accustomed to, Quinn found them strangely soothing.

"Aye, they can be a solace," Nora answered after he'd shared his
thoughts.  "Of course some people view them as prison walls.  Keeping
them locked into a place, or in a life that's not all they'd like it to
be."

Quinn wondered if she might have just given him a little insight into
her marriage to that hotshot rider on the European equestrian circuit
Brady had told him about.  Suddenly they came to a towering hedge
ablaze with shocking pink fuchsia.  The thick seemingly impenetrable
greenery extend in both directions for as far as the eye could see.

"Looks like we've just hit a dead end," he said.

"Oh, there's a passageway that leads to the lough.  I like to fool
myself that it's my own secret entrance," she added with a soft
laugh.

Quinn followed her through the bright fragrant passageway, then stopped
dead in his tracks.  as he gazed down into a valley of unparalleled
beauty.  The lake, surrounded by feather-crowned reeds that swayed in
the breeze, was a splash of glistening sapphire satin on a mottled
green carpet.

"It's lovely, isn't it?"

"Lovely doesn't begin to describe it."  His voice was hushed, almost
reverential, as if he'd entered a cathedral.  "It's stunning.  And
so... peaceful."

The only sounds were the soft sigh of the breeze and the buzzing drone
of fat bees flying from flower to vivid flower.  Quinn could hear
himself breathe.

"We have a saying: ciunas gan uagineas.  It means quietness without
loneliness.  I'm always reminded of that when I come here."

"Ciunas gan uagineas."  Quinn struggled to wrap his tongue around the
unfamiliar syllables.  "It fits."

"Doesn't it?  I suppose you know the legend of how the Lady arrived in
the lake in the first place.

"Actually, I don't.  I just ran across a mention of her in an article
about Irish mermaids and let my imagination fill in the blanks."
Besides, when it came to monsters, Quinn figured he had enough lurking
in his own mind to keep writing long into old age.  "But now that I'm
here, I'd like to hear it."

"Oh, it's a lovely tale.  And far better told by Da.  But I'll try my
best not to disappoint you," she said in the soft swaying tones that
made him think of fairies dancing in the moonlight.

"The lake was once the site of a splendid kingdom ruled over by a
beautiful benevolent queen," she began.  "She had long flowing yellow
hair that fell down her back in waves and glittered like a leprechaun's
gold beneath a full summer sun.

"Because she was as good as she was lovely, the gods had rewarded the
people of her kingdom by bestowing upon them a marvelous gift--a sweet
spring whose waters brought youth to all who drank of it."

"So this is where the Fountain of Youth's been hiding all these years,"
Quinn said.

"Aye."  Her eyes sparkled with humor.  "It's a secret we've kept well
to prevent ourselves from being overrun by even more tourists."  She
paused, then went on, "At any rate, the queen had instructed that the
spring be capped every night with a large stone so it couldn't flow out
and flood the valley.

"Unfortunately a fairy who lived in the glen fell in love with the
queen's husband.  But the fairy was as ugly as an old boar, sharp as a
brier, and evil as the devil, which, of course, made it difficult for
any man to love her in return."

"I can see how all that might prove a problem."

"Aye, a fearsome problem, indeed.  But even when the hag turned herself
into a beautiful young girl, the noble prince remained steadfastly
faithful to the queen and didn't return her affections.

"Well, unfortunately for all, this fairy had a terrible temper, and
when the handsome prince rejected her for the third time, she cast a
wicked spell on him.  That night, during the summer-solstice
celebrations, although he'd always been known as a man who could hold
his liquor, the prince got drunk and passed out before putting the
capstone on the spring.

"So it flowed and flowed, and by morning the entire valley, including
the fair city and all its people, were now underwater.  But since the
water was magic, no one drowned.  Indeed, they adapted quite well to
their new life beneath the lake, although every so often, the queen,
who has sensibly replaced her satin gowns with emerald scales, comes to
the surface to gaze upon the hills that she continues to miss after all
these many years."

"Nice story."  And a helluva lot more benevolent than the dark and
threatening one he'd created.

"I've always thought so.  There are also fishermen who swear that
sometimes on a still summer evening you can look over the edge of your
boat and catch a shimmering glimpse of the turrets of the queen's
castle and the townspeople busily going about their daily work."

Quinn found the idea of a hidden Atlantis-like city almost as appealing
as the magical silent site itself.

"You know," he said, "although this place isn't nearly as wild, it
reminds me a bit of my home on the California coast" It was the
solitude, he decided.  A quietness that was both inspiring and
comforting at the same time.

Nora smiled, seeming pleased he was enjoying her gift.  "If it's wild
scenery you're wanting, Mr.  Gallagher, I'll take you to our seacoast
on our next outing."

Quinn tensed at her casual mention of another sight-seeing trip.
Instincts kicked in, the primordial knee-jerk behavior Laura had, only
yesterday, teasingly compared to a wolf sniffing out a trap.

He knew he should refuse further excursions before he got in any
deeper.  "I think I just might like that," he heard himself saying,
instead.

In a gesture too natural to be contrived, Nora slipped her hand in
Quinn's as they gazed down at the lake.

The crystal-clear sapphire water reflected every cloud, even a passing
gull.  Two white swans, looking as if they'd just flown in from
Sleeping Beauty's castle, floated serenely on the glassy surface.

"I wish I'd seen this before I wrote my book," he said.

"Would you have changed something?"

"Yeah.  I would have set the story in Scotland, since they already have
Nessie.  Or Wales.  Or even California."  He shook his head.  "It
almost seems a sacrilege to invade this place with a movie crew.

"It's not a church."

"Not now.  But I'll bet that the Celts--and before them, the people who
built that burial mound--felt differently."

He shifted his gaze to the ruins of the castle.  "It's a strange
thought."

"What?"

"Thinking of people once living here.  Loving and laughing and warring
behind those walls.  Lord, the stories those stones could tell if they
would talk."

"I believe I owe John an apology," Nora said suddenly.

"John?  Your brother?"

"Aye.  He's been telling me I should read your books, but I haven't.
Oh, I'm sure you're a fine writer," she said quickly, as if afraid she
might have insulted him.  "But I'll admit to preferring stories that
don't give me nightmares."

Having heard that remark countless times, it no longer bothered him.
"Horror has its own reality," he said, twisting her earlier words
concerning myths

As a lone cloud came from behind the velvety mountain to move across
the sun, Nora looked up at him, studying him in that solemn way she
sometimes had.  The way that made Quinn feel as if she were seeing all
the way to his soul.  Not that she'd be able to see anything but
darkness, he thought grimly, unable to remember when he'd last believed
he even possessed a soul.

"I suspect that's true enough."  She reached up as if to touch his
cheek, apparently thought better of it and lowered her hand.  "But any
man who can feel the magic and the mystery of this place is a man whose
books I want to read."

She was suddenly too close.  Quinn felt in danger of suffocating.  "If
you're looking for a way in to who I am," he said, sensing she might
actually be naive enough to believe she could steal into his sealed-off
private places by reading his books, "you'll be disappointed.  Because
there isn't any."  His fingers tightened on the hand he was still
holding.  "And even if there was, believe me, baby, you wouldn't want
to go there."

"And you'd be knowing where I want to go?"  Her lilting tone remained
soft, but she lifted her chin in an obvious challenge.

"I'd be knowing where you damn well shouldn't want to go," he
practically growled.  How the hell had they ever gotten on this
subject?  "It's a dark place, Nora.  Teeming with things you could
never understand."

She surprised Quinn by smiling.  A faint sad little smile that tore at
something elemental deep inside him.

"Now there's where you'd be wrong, Quinn."

This time she did touch his cheek, her fingertips feeling like a
burning brand against his scarred skin.  Then, before he could come up
with an appropriate response, she'd tugged her other hand free of his
and was headed back the way they'd come.

Cursing, Quinn jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and
followed her.  Without the warmth of the buttery spring sun, the day
had suddenly turned as cold and dark as his mood.

And his heart.

"So, how are you and your handsome boarder getting on?"  Kate asked
Nora three days later.  They'd gone shopping together in the village,
taking time for tea at O'Neill's .

"We're not."

Nora pretended grave interest in stirring sugar into her tea.  Though
she was truly fond of her sister-in-law, she didn't want to admit that
she'd actually been a bit depressed by the American's disappearing act
after their outing to the lake.

Despite the fact that his rental fee included meals, he left the house
every morning before breakfast and returned late at night.  If she was
still sitting up in the parlor--not waiting for him, Nora told herself,
merely working on the account books or mending Celia's jumper or some
such necessary task--he'd merely give her a curt nod, a grunt she
supposed was meant as a greeting, then go straight upstairs to his
room.

"Mr.  Gallagher is a source of much-needed income, nothing more."

"So that's why he was looking at you the other morning as if you were a
custard topped with clotted cream."

"He was not!  He wouldn't even be staying at the house if Da hadn't
gone behind my back and rented out my room.  Besides," Nora added, "I'm
not his type."  Hadn't the man told her that himself?

"You're not his usual type of woman, perhaps."  Kate's smile managed to
be both smugly knowing and sympathetic at the same time.  "But I could
tell he fancies you."

"Even if he did--and I'm not saying he does, mind you--nothing could
ever come of a romance with the likes of Quinn Gallagher."  The tea
tasted bitter on her tongue, so Nora added another spoon of sugar.  It
didn't help.  "We're from different worlds."

"Who says anything has to come of it?"  Kate argued.  "You've been
widowed for five long years,

Nora.  I'd say it's high time for you to be kicking up your heels, so
to speak."

Unlike Kate, who'd once been the most sought-after fun-loving girl in
the county before her marriage to Cadel O'Sullivan, Nora had never been
one to kick up her heels.  Not for the first time since Quinn
Gallagher's arrival in Castlelough, was she forced to consider how
impossible it was to fight nature.

"Are you saying I should just fling caution to the winds and go to bed
with him?"

Kate appeared surprised by the question.  "Has it already come to
that?"

Nora felt the blush--the bane of all redheads- flood hot as burning
peat into her face.  "He may have mentioned it the first night.  But
he'd been drinking, so I didn't pay any heed."

"But you were tempted."

Nora knew better than to lie to this woman who was, in many ways,
closer to her than her own sisters.  A woman who could see beyond the
obvious.

Hadn't she even foreseen Conor's horrible accident?  Discovering that
fact at the wake had strained their friendship for a time, because
although Kate had attempted to warn her brother--who'd always
considered himself impervious to injury--she'd never uttered a single
word to Nora.

"And what would it have done," she'd argued at the time, "but only make
you fret more?"  She hadn't suggested Nora might talk her hardheaded
husband out of steeplechase racing; they'd both known that would have
been impossible.

Eventually the resentment had faded, enough so that now Nora was able
to understand how difficult it must have been for her sister-in-law to
have been burdened with such painful knowledge.

"All right," Nora said now as Kate continued to look at her in her
steady knowing way, "I'll admit to a passing thought, just for an
instant, mind you, about what it would be like to make love with Quinn
Gallagher."

"Mr.  Gallagher has the look of a man who'd be a grand lover," Kate
said.

"I suspect Laura Gideon would be knowing about that better than I."

She'd seen the photograph of Quinn and the stunningly beautiful actress
on the front page of yesterday's Irish Independent.  The couple had
been standing on the bank of the lake, their heads close together in a
way that suggested intimacy.  They were laughing, obviously enjoying
themselves immensely, and his arm had been around her waist in a
casually possessive way that spoke volumes.

"Ms.  Gideon told the reporter that she and Quinn are merely
friends."

"They certainly looked friendly enough," Nora muttered.

"Surely you're not jealous?"  Kate's eyes narrowed as she studied her
old friend and sister-in-law.

"Oh dear.  You can't have fallen in love with the man so fast?"

"It's not love."  Nora shook her head and swallowed the rest of the
too-sweet still-bitter tea.  "It can't be love.  I don't even know him.
Besides, we have nothing in common," she said firmly, wondering who she
was trying to convince--herself or her sister-in-law.

"Except lust," Kate suggested.

"Well, there is that," Nora admitted reluctantly.

"Some people might say lust is a good beginning for a relationship."

"Kate O'Sullivan!"  Nora hissed, looking around the small tea-room,
terrified Mrs.  O'Neill or one of the other patrons might have
overheard the scandalous remark.

"Just because I'm married doesn't mean I can't appreciate a
good-looking man.  And remember how exciting--and terrifying--it is to
fall in love."

Her tone was suddenly touched with sadness, making Nora wonder, not for
the first time, if Kate had ever truly loved Cadel O'Sullivan.  Since
she didn't want to hurt her lifelong friend, she decided not to point
out that illicit lust for that American horse trainer who'd come
through Castlelough seven years ago was, in a roundabout way,
responsible for Kate's marriage in the first place.

If Kate hadn't gotten pregnant, Nora doubted she ever would have
married the man who'd been more enamored with the Thoroughbred stud
farm Kate and

Conor had inherited from their father, Joseph Rory Fitzpatrick.  The
irony was that Cadel proved to have no talent at all for handling
horses.

Fortunately Kate's trainer had stepped in, revealing her bridegroom's
unnecessarily heavy hand with a whip.  It was then Kate had sold a
promising stallion to get the money to buy her husband the fishing boat
he'd been working until recently.

Nora often thought how ironic--and sad--it was that a woman possessed
with the gift of Sight should prove to be so blind when it came to her
own life.

"It's not love," she insisted, dragging her thoughts back to the matter
of her feelings for her elusive American boarder.  It couldn't be.  She
wouldn't let it be.

"Would that be so bad?"  Kate asked quietly, proving yet again her
unnerving ability to read her best friend's mind.  "Falling in love
with Quinn Gallagher?"

"Yes.  Because if I were to go falling in love with any man, I'd want
to marry him."

"And you don't believe your American is the marrying kind?"

"No.  He's not.  And he's definitely not my American.  And while we're
on the subject of marriage

Nora lowered her voice "--how are you and Cadel doing?"

Kate began fiddling with her cutlery.  "He's upset about the
Americans."

"I'm sorry."  Nora could see how the invasion of

Americans might remind Cadel that he'd not been the first to bed his
wife.  Then again, she'd always thought that the horrid man latched on
to whatever excuse was handy to justify his bullying behavior.

It was Kate's turn to look away.  "I think it's partly envy.  They're
all so rich.  And brash."

"Aye, they are that," Nora agreed, thinking of the outspoken seductive
way Quinn had talked to her.

For the first time in her life Nora understood what Kate Fitzpatrick
had been thinking--and, more importantly, feeling--that fateful night
she'd given her virginity to a stranger she'd known would be moving on
in the morning.

Although Andrew Sinclair's name had never been mentioned again since
Kate's decision not to write to him about her pregnancy, the man
suddenly hovered in the air between them, like an unwelcome visitor
who'd come to tea.

Feeling as if she were walking on eggshells, Nora reached across the
table and covered her friend's hand with her own.

"You can't go on this way."

"And what would you have me do?"  Kate's eyes brightened with unshed
tears.  "I can't leave him, Nora.  Not after what he did for me."

"Cadel had his own reasons for marrying you while you were carrying
another man's child.  He might not be the smartest man God ever put on
this green earth, but he was surely clever enough to realize that you'd
inherit the stud when your da died.

"You said at the time that you were willing to do anything to save your
reputation and avoid bringing dishonor to the Fitzpatrick name.  Did
you ever think that none of your family would have expected such a
sacrifice from you?  Your reputation isn't worth your life, Kate."

"It won't ever come to that."

"And you're quite sure of that, are you?"

"Of course.  I may be a foolish woman, Nora, but I've never possessed a
martyr complex."

"If Conor were still alive, he'd kill Cadel for what he's done to you."
Heat flashed in Nora's angry tone and in her eyes.

"It's not that bad.  Sometimes when he's drinking, Cadel may get a wee
bit rough, but he's never really hurt me."

"Have you already forgotten about last winter's sprained wrist?"

Kate unconsciously rubbed the wrist in question.  "I tripped over
Maeve.  Which is why Cadel suggested we give the dog to Rory."

"You told me at the time that Cadel had pushed you after a night of
drinking," Nora countered.  "Which made you trip over that poor
sorrowful mess of a dog anyone can tell has been mistreated."

Kate didn't even try to argue the point.  "I can't leave," she said
again.  "What would Jamie and Brigid do without their da?"

"Perhaps sleep a bit easier."

"Those are harsh words, Nora."  Kate's chin lifted ever so slightly in
a way that gave Nora the feeling there just might be a little fight
left in her sister-in-law, after all.  "I love my children more than
life itself."

"I know you do," Nora soothed.  "But did you ever think there's a
chance that if you separated from Cadel, your son might not be so
deathly afraid to shake a man's hand?"

Kate's complexion went as white as the sugar in the pottery bowl.  "You
noticed."

"Aye."  Nora took a deep breath.  "He's a wonderful boy, Kate.  I
remember the night he was born as if it were yesterday.  And he was so
bright and happy when he was a toddler.

"But then he seemed to lose' his joyful gift of laughter.  And this
past year it's as if he's living under a dark threatening cloud.  I
hate seeing Jamie this way.  I hate seeing you so unhappy."

Kate sighed heavily.  Her shoulders slumped.  "When it turned out that
Cadel didn't have a knack for horses, I'd hoped that fishing might be
his salvation.  But ever since he lost his boat to those Dublin
bankers, it's been difficult for him, being a man dependent on his
wife's income."

"And what will it be next year?  What will your husband's excuse be
when he begins beating his son?"  "How can you say that?  You know I'd
die myself before I ever let such a thing happen!"

"And don't you realize that's exactly what may happen?"

Rather than answer, Kate looked at her watch "Where has the time gone?
If we don't get to the butchery, that old harridan Mrs.  Sheehan will
bolt the door and we'll have no fresh meat for dinner."

Realizing she was knocking her head against a stone wall and not
wanting to get into a public argument, Nora nevertheless vowed to
somehow get her sister-in-law out from under Cadel O'Sullivan's brutal
thumb.  Before it was too late.

Chapter Eight

A Man You Don't Meet Every Day

"I hear you have one of those movie people staying at the farm," Lena
Sheehan, proprietor of Sheehan and Sons' Victualers, greeted Nora the
moment she and Kate stopped into the butcher shop.  "Did he bring along
his own food?"

Nora blinked.  "No.  Why would you think he'd be doing that?"  She
might not be a gourmet chef, like those who were making a name for
themselves in trendy Kinsale, but she'd certainly managed to feed her
family for all these years without poisoning them.

"I read in a magazine about a Hollywood film star who always had his
food shipped in whenever he was filming on location."

The butcher woman's pink face, which had seen too much weather over her
sixty-some years, furrowed into a worried frown.  Her salt and-pepper
hair was pulled in a tight bun at the nape of her thick neck.

"Well, Mr.  Gallagher isn't a film star.  He's a writer."  And a very
good one, too, Nora had discovered.  After finishing Quinn's banshee
novel late last night, she'd been almost afraid to turn off the
bedside-table lamp.  Not even Brady could have created a more
terrifying tale.

"I still think they should have stayed home where they belong.  Aren't
the usual monster trackers bad enough?"  Mrs.  Sheehan asked
scathingly.  "Witless city folk traipsing across the fields, leaving
gates open and letting the cows out to be run down.  And all for what?
A burning desire to see some creature that doesn't exist in the first
place."

She shook her head and went on, "Wouldn't a person be more likely to
have the Holy Mother herself appear in one of the hillside hogs,
holding her baby boy wrapped in swaddling clothes, surrounded by the
flaming tongues of the Holy Spirit, than see Castlelough's Lady of the
Lake?"

Nora and Kate exchanged a look.  When Kate lifted a brow, Nora had to
bite her lip.

"I'd like a rasher of bacon," she said, her voice choked with the
laughter that was clogging her throat.  "And seven chops.  Lean ones,
please."  Mrs.  Sheehan was notorious for her parsimony; why carve away
the fat when you could get customers to pay for it?

"Lean you asked for, lean you'll get," Dermott Sheehan said around the
stem of his pipe as he came out of the back room and selected the lea
nest-looking chops.

Nora couldn't remember ever seeing the butcher without the briarwood
pipe that added a vaguely smoked flavor to the meat bought at
Sheehan's.  His apron was stained with dark splashes of blood from his
day's work.

"And not that I'd be pushing you ladies into anything," he added, "but
we've got two nice plump stewing chickens Galen McPheran brought in
from his farm.  Killed them fresh just' this morning, he did."

Nora beamed a smile at the man who never failed to throw in a juicy dog
bone for Maeve at no extra charge.  "I'll take one, thank you, Mr.
Sheehan."

Her own hens were layers, none old enough at the moment to waste to the
pot.  Well, there was Cromwell, the nasty banty rooster, but he was too
skinny to make a decent mouthful.  And as mean as he was, there
probably wasn't enough sugar in the County to sweeten his bitter
taste.

A chicken stew would also be healthier than the pan-fried chops, which,
although she'd never admit it to one of the biggest gossips in
Castlelough, she'd recently cut back on serving at Dr.  Flannery's
suggestion.

Nora didn't truly believe the new doctor could be right about her
father's increased risk of heart attack.

Having married late, like so many Irish bachelors,

Brady was certainly no longer a young man.  But he seemed as
inexhaustible as ever.  And didn't everyone in the county always remark
that Brady Joyce had the energy of a man half his age?

Still, Nora thought, better to be safe than sorry.

"And I'll take the other hen, thank you, Mr.  Sheehan," Kate said, her
cheery smile revealing neither her domestic problems nor their earlier
serious conversation.

"I'm thinking of getting in some fresh pheasants for the movie folk,"
Mrs.  Sheehan revealed as she wrapped the bacon in white waxed paper
and tied it with a string.  The announcement was made in a tone that
Nora thought should properly have been accompanied by a blast of
trumpets.

"Pheasants?"  The butcher shop had always featured plain, affordable
fare.  The kind of cuts favored by the ordinary people of Castlelough.
"Gracious.  Are they even available this time of year?"  Surely Mrs.
Sheehan wasn't thinking of sending her husband and sons out to do a
little poaching?

"They're dear," the older woman allowed.  "But I can order them from a
wholesaler in Cork.  Hollywood types like that fancy stuff."

"Next she'll be ordering in Russian caviar," her husband, who appeared
less than thrilled by the notion, muttered darkly.

"That's not such a bad idea, Dermott."  The sarcasm appeared to slide
off Mrs.  Sheehan like water off a swan's back.  Her face lit up with
an avid enthusiasm Nora, who'd first come to the butcher shop as a
toddler with her mother, had never before witnessed.  "Beluga is the
best, isn't it, Nora?"

"I wouldn't know."  Nora had never understood why any sane person would
want to eat something best used for bait.  If Quinn Gallagher expected
to be served fish eggs at her table, he was in for a disappointment.

"Beluga," Mrs.  Sheehan repeated firmly, answering her own question
with a brisk nod of her gray head.  "And some of that fancy pate from
France."

"Isn't pate nothing but goose livers?"  her husband pointed out.  "And
don't we have our own geese right here in Castlelough?  Why would you
want to be paying to import it?"

"Because no one's ever heard of Irish pate.  Those movie folk are going
to want French."  Her narrow back went as straight as the handle of a
spade as she finished wrapping the chickens and banded them over the
top of the counter.

"You'd be paying for nothing more than a fancy image," her husband
argued.

"I won't be paying.  The movie people will be the ones who pay."

"You don't even know if they like pate," he said.  "We could end up
with a bucket of expensive French goose livers rotting in the freezer.
And what good will that do us then?"

"We'd best be going."  Nora managed to break into the argument when
Mrs.  Sheehan took an angry breath.  She flashed her best smile as she
and Kate paid for their purchases, thanked Mr.  Sheehan for today's
bone, then escaped the shop, leaving the couple to their bickering.

"I wonder if Mrs.  Sheehan has ever smiled in her life," Kate mused as
they drove back to the farm.

"Brady swears she wasn't always so sour," Nora said.  "Once, when I was
complaining about her, he told me a story about a summer crossroads
dance, when men from all over the county stood in line to dance with
the lovely young Lena McDuffy."

"Surely he was making that up!"

"Brady said she was a pretty girl.  With a laugh that always brought to
mind angels."

"The dark angel, perhaps."  Kate shook her head.  "That sounds like
another of your da's tall tales."

"I thought so myself at the time."  Nora couldn't imagine the dour
woman ever laughing.  Let alone dancing.  Lena Sheehan ran her
family--including her husband--the way she ran her butcher shop.  In a
strict no-nonsense way that brooked no argument.  "But Brady swears she
was a popular girl and that Dermott was considered a lucky man to win
her."

"He must have been talking about some other Lena.  Can you imagine that
woman ever loosening up enough to have sex?"

"Her sons are proof she must have slept with poor old Dermott at on at
least five occasions."  The four eldest Sheehan boys worked with their
parents in the Castlelough victualers and in another one the family had
recently opened in Fallscarrig, on the road to Galway.

It had, of course, not mattered a whit that two of the boys had
professed a desire to go to Dublin and work in the hotel business.  The
Sheehans had been butchers going back at least six generations, and
once she'd married into the family, Lena McDuffy Sheehan had become
determined not to be the first wife to let tradition fall by the
wayside.

"Dolan was lucky to escape," Kate said.  "I suppose he has the Church
to thank for that."

Dolan, the fifth and youngest Sheehan son, had been born with a
sensitive nature that had prevented him from being able to saw up a
bloody carcass, let alone kill a live animal.  He'd miraculously
escaped his brothers' fate by joining an order of missionary priests
and hadn't returned to Castlelough for more than a decade.

"I always thought Dolan made an intelligent decision," Nora agreed.
"Given the choice of living beneath Lena Sheehan's iron thumb or
surviving in the jungles of New Guinea, I'd certainly take my chances
with cannibals any day."

Kate laughed along with Nora, the tension that had lingered between the
two best friends dissolved.

* * *

"Have you ever seen anything like it?"  a wide-eyed Jamie O'Sullivan
asked his cousin as they stared down at the army of people who'd taken
over the east bank of the lake.  It was midafternoon and they'd come
here straight from school after picking up Maeve.

"Never in all my life," Rory said.

"It's bigger even than the carnival that came through Castlelough last
summer!"  Jamie breathed.

"Aye."  Rory lifted the binoculars to his eyes again and scanned the
teeming crowd, looking for

Quinn Gallagher.

"You're lucky, having the American staying at your house.  You get to
hear all about the movie-making."

"Mr.  Gallagher's hardly ever there, except to sleep."  The truth was,
Rory had only caught sight of him one other time after that first
Sunday.  It had been early in the morning, when Rory had been taking
the cows out to the field before going to school

He'd seen the writer practically sneaking out of the house by the front
door, as if he wanted to avoid running into the family gathered each
morning in the kitchen.  "I guess movie making is hard work."

"I guess so."  Both boys fell silent, enthralled to be watching a piece
of Castlelough history unfold before their very eyes.  "Shall we go
closer?"  Jamie asked.

Rory hesitated, mindful of his mother's words not to disturb their
boarder.  But then again, it wasn't as if they were the only
townspeople who'd come to watch the movie being filmed.  The hills were
covered with onlookers, including, he'd noticed with surprise, that
gossipy old Mrs.  Sheehan.

"I suppose there'd be no harm in that," he decided.

Ten minutes later they were sitting atop a large rock, watching as a
man in a green baseball cap opened the back door of a large truck.

"It's the creature!"  Jamie exclaimed as a trio of bulky laborers hired
from the village unloaded a huge green fiberglass sea serpent.  "Did
you think it would be so large?"

It was enormous, nearly the size of three lorries.  And as green as
emeralds.  But it was all wrong.

"It's not the Lady," Rory said with a frown.  He knew that movies were
only make-believe, but it bothered him that his best friend should be
portrayed as being so vicious-looking.  This one had a huge yellow
snout, like all the dragons in the picture books he'd liked to look at
when he was a little kid.  "I wonder if they're going to make her spout
smoke and fire?"

"Something wrong with smoke and fire?"

The deep voice, coming from behind them, made both boys jump.

"Jaysus!"  Jamie exclaimed, ducking his head.

Rory didn't--couldn't--say anything.  He felt the heat flooding into
his face and wished he was at the bottom of the lake.

Maeve, obviously delighted with her new friend's arrival, pushed
herself to her huge feet and stretched forward, then back.  Then
bounded the few feet to Quinn, tail wagging, tongue lolling

"I--I'm sorry."  Rory's apology came out on a croak.  His mam was going
to kill him if she found out about this!  "I didn't mean to offend you,
Mr.  Gallagher."

"No offense taken."  Quinn obligingly rubbed the huge furry head Maeve
had stuck beneath his hand.  "I suppose I'm just surprised.  I would
have expected boys your age to enjoy special effects like
fire-breathing dragons and explosions."

"Will there be explosions?"  Jamie asked, his enthusiasm for that idea
overcoming his timidness toward Quinn.

"Toward the end, when the scientists are trying to take the Lady's baby
away for their research and the soldiers set charges into the lake to
distract her.  The director thought it would be dramatic."

"It sounds cruel," Rory murmured.

Quinn took in the furrowed brow and saw Nora in the boy's worried face.
"Life isn't always cakes and cream," he said.

"That's true, sure enough," Rory agreed glumly.  Beside him, his
freckled face far more serious than a small boy's should be, Jamie
solemnly nodded.  "But I was hoping that the movie Lady might look more
like the real one."

"I suppose you've seen the real Lady?"  Quinn asked with amusement.
Deciding Rory must be a chip off Brady Joyce's block, he folded his
arms and prepared to hear a tall fanciful Irish folktale.

"Aye."  Rory lifted his chin in a way that once again reminded Quinn of
the boy's mother and met Quinn's teasing gaze straight on with nary a
flinch.  "I have.  And she doesn't look at all like your monster."

"Creature," Quinn corrected absently, remembering Nora's distinction.
"So..."  He sat down beside Rory, drew his knees up to his chest and
wrapped his arms around them.  The wolfhound lay down beside him with a
huge sigh of pleasure.  "Why don't you tell me a little about her?"

Rory paused, as if remembering his mother's admonition not to bother
the American writer.

"Well, in the first place, she looks more like a seahorse than a
dragon," he said warily.  "But you do have the color right.  Her scales
are as green and shiny as emeralds."

The ice broken, he began warming to his subject.  For the next twenty
minutes, Rory rattled on, describing the supposedly mythical creature
in amazing detail, and although it went against every logical bone in
his body, Quinn began to wonder if the stories could possibly be
true.

It wasn't that he didn't believe in monsters.  After all, he'd
certainly suffered more than his share of them.  The difference between
him and Rory Fitzpatrick, it seemed, was that his monsters had all worn
human faces.  And not one of them had possessed as benevolent a nature
as the lake creature with whom Rory claimed close acquaintance.

"That's quite a story," he said when Rory finally ran down.

"It's the truth."

"I'm not disputing your word.  I'm just rethinking my script."

"You'd not be taking out the explosions?"  Jamie asked, openly alarmed
by that prospect.

"No.  I think the director would ban me from the set if I suggested
getting rid of those.  They work too well on the trailers."

"Trailers?"  Rory echoed.  "Like a traveler's caravan?"

"No, the type of trailers I'm talking about are movie previews."

"An," Jamie agreed shyly.  "The comings.  They're my favorite part."

"Sometimes mine, too," Quinn said.  "And getting back to our problem
with the Lady, perhaps I could make the creature a bit less
vengeful."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea."  Rory was plucking out
handfuls of bottle green grass as he looked down at the fiberglass
creature that had cost a small fortune and kept a team of
special-effects artisans busy for months.  "If the bad scientists are
trying to take away her child, she'd probably fight back.  My mam sure
would."

"Mothers are like that, I suppose," Quinn murmured.  Though he'd never
shared such maternal devotion firsthand, he had no doubt Nora
Fitzpatrick would fight like a tigress for her only son.

"My ma says she'd never let anyone hurt me, either," Jamie said
somberly.

Remembering the fear Rory's cousin had displayed on Sunday morning and
the bullying behavior of Cadel O'Sullivan in the pub, Quinn suspected
that this was a promise Kate O'Sullivan felt she needed to make to her
son.  Unfortunately, he suspected, it wasn't one she'd be able to keep
forever.

"As I said, mothers are like that," he repeated with more certainty
than he felt.  Experiencing that sinking feeling again and wanting to
get off this topic that was suddenly hitting too close to home, he
rubbed his hands together and said, "So, although our creature looks
more like a dragon than the Lady she is, how would you boys like to get
a look at her close-up?"

Needless to say, neither lad needed to be asked twice.

They stayed the rest of the afternoon, enthralled by everything.  Not
wanting Kate or Nora to worry, Quinn had his assistant phone both
mothers, assuring them their sons were fine and he'd be bringing them
home later that evening.  While neither argued against the plan, the
young woman reported back to Quinn that Nora Fitzpatrick had sounded
less than pleased.

Rory displayed interest in every detail, asking a continual litany of
questions.  His cousin remained far more reserved, and once, when Quinn
absently placed a hand on the O'Sullivan boy's shoulder, Jamie had
frozen in obvious fear.  Understanding that response all too well,
rather than take his hand away, Quinn had allowed it to linger another
significant moment.  The next time Jamie had merely flinched.  Then, as
the strong male hand proved harmless, he'd relaxed.  By the end of the
day, he seemed almost willing to trust Quinn, and while not nearly as
outspoken as his cousin, he'd begun asking his share of questions, as
well.

"It's going to be a grand movie," Rory enthused as the trio drove home.
It was twilight and the air was soft and still.  The only sound was the
light snoring coming from Maeve, asleep in the back seat.

"If it isn't, it won't be for lack of trying," Quinn said.
"Unfortunately, unlike westerns or thrillers, which have clearly
defined good and bad guys, horror has always been difficult to do on
film."

"My mam says the things we imagine are always scarier than real
things."  Rory wasn't about to admit that when he'd been little, he'd
made his mother check under the bed every night for monsters before
he'd let her turn off the light.

"Your mother is a wise woman."

"Aye, Grandda always says she's the smartest girl in the county," Rory
agreed with renewed enthusiasm.  "She's pretty, too."

"She is that," Quinn agreed.

"Great-grandma Fionna says there are lots of men in Castlelough who'd
give their eyeteeth to marry her."

"I don't doubt that for a minute."

"But maybe there'd be those who might not want to get married to
someone who already has a son."

Hearing the obvious question behind Rory's question, Quinn slanted him
a glance.  "I'd say any man worth considering would find a son a
bonus."

"Would that be true?"  The little face brightened.

"Absolutely."  Suspecting he knew where this conversation was going and
wanting to head it off at the pass, Quinn decided he was going to have
to be totally honest.  "If I were interested in getting married, I
think I'd like the idea of getting a ready-made family."

"But you're not?  Interested in getting married, I mean?"

"No."  Quinn's tone was friendly but firm.  "I'm not."

When Rory fell silent and took a sudden interest in the misty fields
flashing by the passenger window, Quinn felt like the lowest kind of
jerk.  But he also knew that holding out false hope would be even
crueler.

He slowed down as a come dashed out of a break in the hedgerow up
ahead.  He'd already discovered that this time of day, whenever you saw
a dog, a herd of cows on their way from the pasture to the milking barn
were close behind.

"My father died when I was a kid," Quinn said into the lingering
silence.  He did not add that Jack Gallagher had been in prison at the
time of his death, or that Quinn had practically done cartwheels when
the authorities had telephoned his mother with the news.  "So I know
how hard it is sometimes not having a dad."

"Like for the father-and-son trek," Rory agreed glumly.

Quinn braked, allowing a boy only a bit older than Rory to pass in
front of the car.  He was leading a herd of white-faced black cows,
while the collie ran back and forth, seeming to keep cows and boy in a
close-knit bunch.

"The father-and-son trek?"

"Yes.  It's put on by the school and it's for a weekend," Jamie piped
up.  "All the boys will be going.  My da's even taking me."  The
uncensored joy in his expression was a distinct contrast to the shadow
that had moved over Rory's young face at the subject of the upcoming
trip.

"Perhaps Brady could take you, Rory?"  Quinn suggested hopefully.

Damn.  He wasn't going to fall into this trap.  After all, hadn't he
done enough, giving the kids the grand tour today?  Why should he be
surrogate dad to the world's fatherless boys?

"Grandda said he would.  But my mam said he's getting too old for such
things."  Rory bit his lip and looked steadfastly out the front window.
"I don't mind.  I'd just as soon catch up on my chores, anyway."

Quinn wondered why none of the myriad books he'd read about Ireland
while trying to research The Lady of the Lake had bothered to mention
that the damn emerald isle was covered with quicksand.  Buckets of it.
Everywhere a guy stepped.  Or spoke.

"When is this trek?"

"A couple of weeks from now," Jamie said.  "It goes from Saturday
morning to Sunday evening.  We even have a dispensation from Father
O'Malley to miss mass."

"Imagine that.  It must be a big deal."

"It is," Jamie assured Quinn.  Rory didn't say a thing.

"Does the man have to be a member of the boy's family?"

"Oh, no."  Jamie shook his head.  "In fact, I told Rory we could share
my da, but--"

"How about me?"

"What?"  That captured Rory's attention.  He turned toward Quinn, his
eyes filled with that same guarded hope Quinn had witnessed in Nora's
during the brief stolen interlude at the lake.

"It's been a long time since I've been on a camping trip.  Sounds like
fun," he said with a casualness unlikely for a man who could feel the
quicksand closing in around him.

"You'd come?  With me?  Like a da?"

"Like a friend," Quinn corrected, wanting once more to get this
essential point straight.  "And sure, I'd like to come.  If you'll have
me."

Dark blue eyes glistened suspiciously, and for a moment, Quinn feared
he was going to have to deal with a flood of tears.  But apparently
Rory Fitzpatrick was, like his mother, made of sterner stuff.

"Thank you, Mr.  Gallagher," he said formally.  Only the merest tremor
in his voice hinted at suppressed emotion.  "I'd very much enjoy having
you come on the trek with me."

"Well, then, it's settled."

As the boys began excitedly making plans for the upcoming adventure,
Quinn was surprised that he didn't find the prospect of an overnight
camping trip with Nora's son all that hard.

Here there be dragons.

Oh, yes, Quinn thought with grim irony, remembering how that thought
had struck momentary dread in him right before he'd entered the Shannon
terminal.  Dragons were indeed alive and well in Ireland.  He'd just
never expected one of them to have taken on the benign appearance of a
freckle-face six-year-old boy.

Chapter Nine

Oft in the Stilly Night

The moon had risen high in the cloud-darkened sky when Nora stood
outside Quinn's room, listening to the faint tap-tap-tap of computer
keys that told her he was still awake and working.  She knew he'd been
avoiding her ever since their time at the lake, and although she found
his behavior faintly vexing, she'd also been grateful that he'd stepped
back from what she kept telling herself would have been a dreadful
mistake.

Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Nora could almost hear her mother
complaining in her head.  Isn't that all I need, a coward for a
daughter?

Although Kate might be a believer in talking with those who'd passed
on, Nora had always felt her little chats with her mother were more a
case of her mind simply tapping into what she knew Eleanor Joyce would
probably say in any given situation.

"Shut up, Mam," she muttered now, just in case her mother truly could
be listening to her.  She really was in no mood for an argument
tonight, imaginary or not.

After returning from the village this afternoon, her day had taken a
sharp downhill slide.  John had remained late at school working on some
end-of-term science project, forcing her to go out to the fields to
bring in the cows herself.  Mary was in the throes of yet another
teenage funk, and Fionna, undeterred by the threat of more violence
that had been reported on the news today, was still planning her trip
to Derry.

Her father, never one to be counted on to pitch in with farm work, had
outdone himself, arriving home from McLaughlin's Stoneworks
inordinately pleased with his new purchase: a marble headstone.

"What in the name of all the saints were you thinking?"  Nora had lost
her temper and shouted at him.  "Spending hard-earned money for such a
thing?"

"The American has provided us with a profitable little windfall," Brady
had reminded her without heat.  "Surely you wouldn't begrudge your poor
old da a proper stone for his final resting place."

of course she wouldn't.  But that wasn't the point.  Her recent
conversation with the doctor concerning her father's heart made the
idea of someday losing the man who'd always remained a bit of a child
too painful to contemplate

"You won't he needing a headstone for years and years," she'd
insisted.

"All, but it makes me feel better, knowing it's taken care of," he'd
responded.

It was not such an unreasonable thing.  Nora knew that the Irish need
to have some funds put aside for a pleasant final resting place in the
church cemetery and, for those lucky enough to afford it' a proper
headstone, dated back to the days of the Fasine.  if the admittedly
lovely piece of fog gray marble etched with an ornately carved Celtic
cross made Brady feel more secure, she had no right to begrudge him the
purchase.  Just the same, it had put a pall over an already trying
day.

Then, if all that hadn't been vexing enough, when she'd finally
finished up in the milking shed' she'd spotted sparks coming from
behind the barn and had discovered that Celia and her best friend,
Peggy Duran, had wrapped a Barbie doll in burlap, tied her to a stake
and set her on fire, reenacting the martyrdom of Saint Joan.

With the acrid scent of melting plastic still in her nostrils, Nora had
one more problem to deal with before she could drag herself off to bed.
The business of Rory's trek.

She took another deep breath, fought the anxiety that was flapping huge
wings in her stomach, then rapped on the plank door.

"It's open," the deep male voice called out.  "Come on in."

Nora paused in the open doorway, her heart tumbling in a wild series of
somersaults at the sight of Quinn sitting in bed--her bed, mind
you!--bare to the waist.  And even perhaps, she feared, beyond.

It had turned cool and wet after sundown, the spring weather
predictably unpredictable.  He'd lit a fire, and the light from the
glowing peat made his tanned skin gleam copper.

"I'm sorry."  Nora told herself she should look away, but like a
starving child gazing at hand-dipped chocolates in the sweet-shop
window, she couldn't.  She took another deep breath meant to calm.  "I
don't mean to be interrupting your work."

"No problem.  Just a minute."  He tapped a few more keys on his laptop.
"Sorry, I just wanted to save the new stuff about the Lady."

"Rory said you're changing the story."  That had surprised her.  But
then again, everything about the American had proved a surprise from
the beginning.

"Actually I'm turning her back to the way I originally depicted her in
the book."

"Oh."  Since Nora still hadn't read the novel that was responsible for
Quinn living beneath her roof; there was nothing she could say to that.
"I should be thanking you for giving him such a wonderful day."

"It was my pleasure.  He's a great kid, Nora."

"Aye.  I believe so, too.  Although I shouldn't be so boastful.  After
all, what mother doesn't think the sun rises and sets on her child?"

He laughed at that, causing her romantic heart to skip a heat.  She
wondered if he had any idea how appealing he was when he put aside his
usual grin' demeanor and allowed those little crinkly lines to fan out
from his midnight eyes.  His Smile was surprisingly warm for a man who
seemed unaccustomed to using it.

"You're too hard on yourself, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick.  Since it's obvious
you've done a great job with the kid, you shouldn't feel the need to
qualify the issue.  Most women I know are better at accepting
compliments."

"I've no doubt of that."  She would not blush, Nora vowed firmly.  No
matter what the man said.  Or how he looked at her.  "However, I
believe we've already determined that I'm not like most women of your
acquaintance."  His kind of woman, she tacked on mentally.

"Point taken."  The smile faded, and the shutters slammed closed over
his teasing dark eyes.  "What can I do for you?  From the lines in your
forehead when you walked in, I'd suspect you didn't risk confronting me
in bed just to thank me for giving your son the V.I.P treatment
today."

"No."  The way he'd folded his arms drew her gaze back to his bare
California-dark chest and made it even more difficult to concentrate.
Nora considered asking him if he'd put on a shirt, then realized she'd
only be letting him know exactly how much he unsettled her.  Which, she
thought on an inner sigh, he probably already knew.  "It's about the
trek."

"Ah."  He arched a dark brow.  "Are you about to suggest you don't
trust Rory with me?"

"Oh, not at all."  Her first thought was shock that he'd even consider
such a thing.  Her second was a faint wonder why she was so certain
that, despite his cautionary words to the contrary, Quinn Gallagher
was, deep down inside, a good man.  A man she could easily trust with
her only child.  "It's just that I can't be having him imposing on you
in such a way."

"It's not an imposition.  if you think I volunteered to take your son
on a hike in order to win points with you--"

"Oh, I wouldn't be thinking that!"

"Good.  Because I know how tough it can be to miss out on all that
father-and-son stuff.  Besides, I haven't seen that much of the country
since I arrived.  This will give me a chance to do some
sight-seeing."

"And of course.  sight-seeing with eleven six- and seven-year-old boys
is your lifelong dream."

She couldn't resist the pleasure she felt when she made him laugh
again.  Yes, Quinn Gallagher was a hard man to know.  But somehow,
Maeve and Rory seemed to have found the way beyond the barricades he'd
erected.  And, although she knew it was the most dangerous thought
she'd had yet concerning her boarder, Nora wondered what it would take
to send those barricades tumbling altogether.  "All right," he allowed.
"If the truth be told, given a choice, I'd rather go trekking with you,
since despite what I said about you not being my type, the idea of
sharing a sleeping bag with you beneath the stars has its appeal.

"But don't go looking for ulterior motives, Nora.  I'd never use a kid
to get to his mother."

"I know you'll be thinking of me as just a backward country girl,
but--"

"Ah, we're back to you accusing me of accusing you of being a
cuichie."

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"  Making Quinn laugh was one thing.  Nora
hated the way she seemed to be a continuing source of amusement for him
even when she was trying her hardest to be serious.  Growing more
self-conscious by the moment, she went to the window, put her hand on
the cold rain-wet glass and looked out into the blackness beyond.

"I've no doubt that any number of women in America would willingly
tumble into your bed without a second thought."  When he didn't bother
to respond to something that was so obviously true, she glanced at him
over her shoulder.  "But I can't escape the way I was brought up.  I
can't take such things casually."

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"  When he pushed aside the quilt,
Nora was both vastly relieved to discover he was wearing jeans and
shaken by how the sight of that open metal button at the low-slung
waist had her fingertips practically tingling with the need to touch.

In two long strides he was standing in front of her.  Too close.  She
took a tentative step backward and realized those steady dark eyes
missed nothing.

"You're right to back away."  His voice was deep and low, like the
rumble of distant surf.  It also drew her as a silkie was inexorably
drawn back to the sea.  "After all, a woman like you would be crazy to
get mixed up with a man like me."

"You don't know anything about me."  Unnerved but determined not' to
show it, Nora lifted her chin.

How could he possibly know what type of woman she was, she wondered,
when she didn't know herself?  Ever since this man's arrival in
Ireland, she'd felt as if a stranger had slipped beneath her skin and
taken over her mutinous body.  A stranger whose wicked thoughts alone
undoubtedly shattered more commandments and church tenets than Nora had
ever dreamed of breaking.

"Just as I don't know anything about you," she added.

Quinn narrowed his eyes, then reached out his hands and thrust his long
fingers through her hair, splaying them at the back of her head,
holding her hostage to his steady gaze.  Then he moved closer, trapping
her between the cool glass and the heat of his body.

"And that would be important to you," he said.

It was not a question, but Nora answered it, anyway.  "Aye."  The
single soft word sounded frail and shaky.  Once again she considered
how foolishly old-fashioned and parochial she must appear to this
sophisticated American.  "I told you, I can't take--"

"Sex casually.  I know."  He continued to look down at her for a long
thoughtful moment.  Just when Nora's tightened nerves were on the verge
of screeching like a wild banshee on a November eve's Samhain night, he
backed away.

"It's late."  His voice was gruff and distant.  "I know from experience
that a farm day begins ridiculously early.  You'd best be getting to
bed."

Any other woman might have been stung by such a curt dismissal.  But
Nora took heart from the realization he'd just given her a clue about
his past.  From the looks of him, she never would have guessed Quinn
Gallagher knew anything about farming.  But apparently he did.

Which meant, she thought with a burst of optimism, that perhaps the two
of them had something in common, after all.

Sweet Mary, you're a hopeless romantic, Nora Joyce Fitzpatrick, she
imagined her mother's scolding tone.

Aye, Mam, I fear you're right.

Although life had taught Nora that leading with one's emotions could
lead to heartbreak, such behavior had also allowed her to experience a
great deal of joy, as well.  Just looking at her son's face over the
breakfast table every morning or gazing down at him asleep in his bed
each night was enough to make her heart sing.

"Good night, Quinn."  His given name, which she was using for the first
time, tasted as rich and sweet as freshly churned cream.

He'd backed away, granting her easy access to the door.  Before
leaving, she glanced over her shoulder.  "Will we be seeing you for
breakfast?"

There was more than the offer of porridge and scones in her question.
Nora knew it.  And obviously Quinn knew it' too.  She could practically
see the stone barricades going up around him again.

He rubbed his night-stub bled jaw.  "I can't promise anything."

Once again Nora understood they were not talking about breakfast.

"We'll leave things nice and easy, then."

Because her fingers itched to rub at the lines bracketing his tightly
set mouth, because she felt an unruly need to soothe the tension from
his brow, Nora gave him a smile she hoped appropriate for an innkeeper
to share with a boarder.  Then she left the bedroom before she got
herself into more trouble than she could handle.

Quinn couldn't sleep.  His mind was tangled like the woven Celtic-knot
tapestry hanging on the wall opposite the bed.  He tried working on the
outline for his new novel, but Nora kept intruding herself into the
story.

Instead of being a dark-haired fey creature, his druidic witch
possessed hair as bright as a California sunset and eyes the sparkling
hue of polished emeralds.  The one thing that didn't change was the way
the heroine bewitched the hapless hero, casting a spell on him that
drew him to her like iron filings to a magnet.  And even though his
fictional witch-hunter knew her to be the most dangerous woman he'd
ever met, he was powerless to resist her charms.  A feeling Quinn,
unfortunately, could readily identify with.

Finally, sometime after midnight, needing to cool off from the sexual
images writhing in the dark depths of his mind, Quinn dragged himself
out of the tangled sheets, dressed and went outside.

The rain had passed on, leaving a clear night sky studded with stars
glittering as icily as diamonds on black velvet.  A white ring
encircled a full moon that floated overhead like a ghost galleon.

He looked up at the darkened window he knew to be Nora's and told
himself he was just imagining the way the lace curtains seemed to have
moved ever so slightly.  The damn woman had gotten beneath his skin and
into his mind and he was beginning to suspect that the only way he was
going to exorcise her was to take her to bed.  Then, his sexual hunger
satiated, he could get on with his life.  As he always had in the
past.

Even as he told himself that, Quinn suspected it would not be so easy.
Wishing he still smoked, he was trying to decide which would be more
satisfying,

throttling Nora for messing with his mind this way or bedding her, when
he heard the squeak of the kitchen door opening.

At first he thought it might be her.  But the girl who slipped
stealthily out of the house into the shadows was too tall and too
slender to be Nora.

"Isn't it a bit late to be going out?"  he asked.

Mary obviously hadn't noticed him.  She jumped like a startled doe at
the sound of his voice.

"Mr.  Gallagher?"  Whatever are you doing out here?"

"I couldn't sleep.  I guess you were having the same problem."

"Aye."  He heard her sigh.  A not entirely comfortable silence settled
over them.  "Have you been out here long?"  Mary asked.

"A while."  He folded his arms and leaned back against the fender of
the rented Mercedes.  "It's a nice night.  I believe I'll stay out a
bit longer," he said, answering the unspoken question he suspected she
was dying to ask.

"Oh."  The disappointment in her tone told him he'd guessed right.

"You know, I remember a few times, when I was growing up, when I'd
sneak out of the house to meet my girlfriend," he offered casually.  It
was, of course, a lie.  By the time he'd been Mary's age he'd been on
his own, and no one had given a damn what he did or with whom.

Another sigh.  "I was going to meet Jack," she admitted.

"The guy who decided to take someone else to the dance?"

"Aye."  She looked away, pretending vast interest in the starry sky.

Quinn told himself he should just stay out of whatever problems Nora
Fitzpatrick's sister was having with her unfaithful high-school
Lothario.

"You know," he heard himself saying, "it's none of my business, but if
this Jack guy makes having sex a condition to dating, I'd say he's not
good enough for a bright pretty girl like you."

"I'm not pretty."  She dragged her hand through her hair in a gesture
that was a visual echo of her sister.  Then again, Quinn thought, too
damn much these past days reminded him of Nora Fitzpatrick.  "I'm too
tall.  And too thin."

"Most people consider that fashion-model material.  And even if you
weren't going to grow up to be a beauty like your sister-which I'm sure
you will--you shouldn't feel you have to sleep with a guy to get him to
like you."

"Nora is beautiful," Mary said, latching on to the wrong part of his
statement The part he'd never meant to admit out loud.  "She was
already the prettiest girl in the county when she married Conor.  And
she was barely two years older than I am now."

Quinn wasn't pleased at how much he didn't want to think about Nora
having been married to some hunk athlete who looked good on a horse.

"You've plenty of time to be thinking about marriage, "he said, trying
to return this already uncomfortable conversation back to the topic of
celibacy.  Or, at the very least, safe sex.

"That's what Nora says."  This sigh was deeper than the earlier ones.
"But Nora doesn't understand.  She was a virgin when she married
Conor."

Quinn was not the least bit surprised by that little news flash.
"There's nothing wrong with saving virginity for marriage."

"Not in her time, perhaps," Mary allowed, making her sister sound far
more ancient than her mid twenties  "But things are different these
days."

"Are they?"  It was his turn to pretend to study the stars.  Quinn
stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his boot heels.
"I'm not so sure about that.  I'd suspect boys have probably been
trying to talk girls into doing things they might not be ready to do
since caveman days."

It hadn't been that way in his case.  He'd lost his virginity in the
back of a pickup truck to the oversexed adulterous wife of one of the
potato farmers he'd been sent to work for when he was fifteen.

At first he'd thought he was the luckiest kid in the entire state of
Nevada.  By the time his sixteenth birthday rolled around, he'd begun
to feel dirty and used.  He'd also been terrified of being discovered
by the woman's beefy brutal redneck husband.

Other women had followed.  More than he could count.  But none of them
had ever been virgins.  Nor had any of them been as innocent as Nora.

"Jack says boys are different," Mary argued.  "They have certain
needs."

"Not every need has to be acted on."  Hell, Quinn was living proof of
that.  If he'd acted on his own personal hungers, he'd be upstairs in
bed with Mary's older sister right now.

"I read one of your books," she revealed.  "The one about the banshee.
John's right.  It was very good."

"Thank you."

"And didn't the man and woman in your story make love?  And they
weren't married."

He heard the challenge in the question and tried to answer it honestly.
"They were a lot older than you.  And besides, it was just a story. Not
real life."

"In real life would you still be interested in a girl if she wasn't
ready to have sex with you?"

The frankness of the teenager's question surprised Quinn.  But' not as
much as his own answer.  "Absolutely."  It was, he realized, thinking
of Nora again, the truth.

Another silence settled over them, this one a bit more companionable.
In the star-spangled stillness of the night, Quinn could practically
hear the wheels turning in the teenager's head.

"I have a literature test tomorrow," Mary said finally.  "It's an essay
exam on The Children of Lir,

in Gaelic, and the sisters like us to use plenty of quotations.  I
suppose I should be getting my sleep if I want to score well."

"That's probably an excellent idea.  You'll want to keep your grades up
if you plan to go to college."

"I was thinking of becoming a teacher.  Like Nora was going to be
before she had to leave the convent."

"Your sister was in a convent?"  Somehow, when' he'd been listing his
daughter's numerous charms, Brady had neglected to mention that salient
little fact.  Quinn reminded himself that it might not be how it
sounded.  After all, convent schools were common in this country.

"She was going to become a nun," Mary revealed.

Hell.

"But then our mam died and Nora had to leave the order and come home to
take care of us.  Then she married Conor and had Rory, and she said she
was happy she hadn't taken her vows.  But then Conor was killed in that
riding accident."

Quinn wondered what type of bastard he could be to be jealous of a dead
man.  "Sounds as if she hasn't had an easy time of it," he said with a
great deal more casualness than he was feeling.

"She hasn't.  But it's not in Nora's nature to complain.  Doesn't Gran
say she's a natural-born care-taker?"

From what he'd seen, Quinn figured Fionna Joyce was right.  He also
reminded himself that he wasn't in the market to have anyone take care
of him.  He'd been doing just fine all by himself for most of his
thirty-five years.

"Well, good night, Mr.  Gallagher," Mary said.  "And thank you."

"The name's Quinn," he reminded her.  "And you don't owe me any thanks,
Mary.  I enjoyed our conversation."

He watched her cross the yard and slip back into the house.  First
Rory.  And now Mary.  If he wasn't careful, Quinn warned himself
grimly, the damn emotional quicksand he'd stumbled into was going to
close in over his head and suffocate him.

Unable to sleep a wink with thoughts of Quinn tumbling through her head
like abandoned seashells in a stormy surf, Nora heard Mary slip out of
her bedroom and make her way down the stairs with all the stealth of a
thief in the night.

Remembering all too well how she'd stolen away to meet Devlin when
she'd been Mary's age and fearful that Jack wouldn't be nearly as
protective of her sister as Devlin Monohan had been of her, Nora went
to the window and pulled the curtain aside, expecting to see the
teenage boy who'd been causing Mary such distress.

But instead, she saw Quinn standing in the shadows.  When, as if
somehow sensing her presence, he glanced up at the window, Nora jumped
back, realizing a moment later that with the bedroom light off, he
wouldn't be able to see her.

Knowing that, and feeling free to observe him undetected, she watched
as his presence obviously startled Mary.  They talked for a
while--about what, Nora couldn't imagine--but from time to time each
seemed fascinated by the starry night sky.

Then Mary returned to the house.  As she heard her sister coming back
upstairs, Nora guessed that somehow Quinn had succeeded in deterring
the teenager from her original romantic tryst.

And when later she looked back on this night, Nora would realize that
this was the exact moment she'd fallen in love with Quinn Gallagher.

Her first instinct was to wait until tomorrow morning to confront her
sister.  But the usual rush to school allowed scant time for
conversation of any kind, let alone the intimate kind Nora knew she and
Mary should have.

Coward, she thought as she paced the floor, listening to the footfalls
outside her bedroom door.  A moment later she heard Mary's door
close.

It would be so easy just to go to bed, pull the covers over her head
and ignore the problem, but that was like an ostrich sticking its head
in the sand.  Nora knew that problems ignored had a way of escalating,
and she hated to think that her own cowardice might put her sister at
risk'

Sighing, she pulled on her quilted flannel wrapper and left the room.
The few feet down the hall to Mary's door seemed like a hundred
kilometers.

Mary opened the door at Nora's first light rap.  Guilt rose hotly in
the girl's cheeks like a sunset before a storm.  "Nora?"  she asked
with an innocent air that was in direct contrast to the guilt in her
eyes.

"Is something wrong?"

"Not really," Nora said, hoping it was true.  "I was just having
trouble sleeping and thought I heard you up, as well.  So I wondered if
you might want to join me in a cup of tea."

"It's not like you to be up so late."

"True enough.  Which is why I'd like some company in the kitchen.  If
you don't mind?"  It was more order than request, and both sisters knew
it."

Mary gave her another long look, then shrugged.  "I suppose a cup of
tea might be nice," she said with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

Neither spoke until Nora was pouring the tea into two of the everyday
cups.

"So," Nora asked as she placed a basket of dark bread on the table, as
well, "how are things going with the May Day celebrations?"

"All right, I suppose."  Mary busied herself by adding sugar and milk
to her tea.  "Sister Mary Augustine says I'm under consideration to be
May queen."

"Why, that's wonderful!"  Nora didn't have to feign her enthusiasm at
this news.  She hadn't been expecting to be able to begin the
conversation on such a positive note.

"It's not wonderful at all."  Mary's eyes glistened with moisture.
"Because if I am selected, I'll probably be the only May queen in the
history of Castlelough who didn't have a date for the dance."

"I doubt that," Nora murmured, dearly hoping her sister wouldn't burst
into tears before they could get to the meat of the subject.

"That's easy enough for you to say.  Since you were going out with
Devlin when the sisters chose you to be queen."

"Aye."  Nora had to fight against the smile that threatened at the
memory of dancing in Devlin's strong arms.  And the kisses they'd
shared after the dance.  "But it's better to be without a man than to
be with the wrong man."

Mary frowned.  "Now you're speaking of Jack."

"I suppose I am."  Nora dragged her hand through her hair.  "I don't
want to interfere in your life, Mary darling'--"

"Then don't."

If only it were that easy, Nora thought with an inner sigh.  She paused
again, selecting her words with care.  "I know you feel as if you're
all grown-up, but--"

"I'm nearly as old as you were when you married Conor."

"I didn't realize Jack was talking marriage."

"He's not."  Mary's shoulders slumped.  She looked absolutely wretched.
Nora would have given anything to save her sister the heartache she
knew she must be suffering.  "At least, he hasn't yet.  But I know that
if only..."  Her words drifted off.

"You're thinking if you go to bed with him, he might become more
marriage-minded."

Mary didn't answer, but her silence spoke volumes.  Feeling a rush of
affection for the miserable girl who was trying to feel her way over
that rocky ground between the world of a child and adulthood, Nora
reached out and covered her sister's hand with her own.

"I'm going to be frank.  I think going to bed with Jack would be a
horrible mistake.  But I also realize that there's little I can do to
stop you, if it's what you truly want to do.  But there is one thing
I'd like you to keep in mind while you're making your decision

"When a man sincerely loves a woman, the forever-after kind of love we
all hope for, the kind I wish for you, Mary, he puts her feelings
before his own.  He wants to protect her.  And he'd never ask her to do
anything she wasn't ready to do."

Another silence settled over them.  Mary finished off the rest of her
tea, then stared down at the bottom of her now-empty cup as if trying
to read her future in the dark leaves that had settled there.

"John's offered to take me to the dance," she said at length.

Knowing how shy her studious brother was in social situations, Nora
made a mental note to thank him first thing in the morning.  "There're
worse things than being seen in public with your older brother."

"Aye.  And the girls all think he's good-looking."

"Really?"

"Denise Brennan has had a crush on him forever," Mary surprised Nora by
revealing.  "And Kathleen Ryan is always trying to sit next to him on
the bus to school, but his head is always so buried in his stupid
schoolbooks, he never notices."  She sighed.  "He's a terrible dancer,
though."

That was one point Nora wasn't even going to try to argue.  Their
brother had many talents, but dancing definitely wasn't one of them.

"That shouldn't prove a problem since, once you arrive, you'll
undoubtedly have all the unattached boys standing in line for the
privilege.  More than you would if you'd had Jack hovering over you all
night."

Feminine speculation rose in Mary's previously bleak eyes.  "Jack was
the jealous sort, even though he felt free enough to look at other
girls."

"Like Sharon."

"Aye."  Nora knew they'd turned a corner when her sister didn't burst
into tears at her rival's name.  "Can we afford a new dress?"

"Absolutely."  Even if the income from the room rental hadn't filled
the family coffers and Brady had spent a good chunk of it on a
headstone, if a new dress would lift Mary from the doldrums and keep
her from Jack's clutches, it was well worth it.  "And shoes, as well.
Foolishly impractical ones with high heels that will show off your
lovely long legs."

"Quinn says that I'm model material."

"He should know.  Being a man of the world and all."  "That's what I
was thinking."

With the crisis seemingly over, they went back upstairs.  A while later
Nora heard Quinn return to his room, too.

And as the farmhouse finally settled down for the night, Nora lay alone
in the dark, wondering how many glamorous long-legged supermodels her
rich American boarder was personally acquainted with.

Chapter Ten

The Rising of the Lark

Pleasure was like a lark, singing its sweet morning song in Nora's
heart when Quinn entered the kitchen the following morning.

"Well, if it isn't our mystery boarder," Fionna said, lifting her
teacup in welcome.  "And hadn't I just begun to think you were a
figment of my imagination?"

"And a good day to you' too, Mrs.  Joyce."  He glanced past the lace
curtains to the gray drizzle streaming down the window glass.  "I
decided there wasn't any point in leaving too early.  Since we can't
shoot until the rain stops."

Not a single soul in the room mentioned the salient fact that it had
rained during the early hours nearly every morning since Quinn's
arrival.

"It's a soft rain."  Nora placed the steaming mug of coffee she'd
brewed, just in case, in front of him.  "It should clear in time for
you to get in a good day's work."

"One can always hope.  The director told me yesterday we're already in
danger of running over budget."

He neglected to mention that Jeremy's explosion of temper had come
after Quinn's suggestion that they might consider changing the looks of
the creature-making it more the benevolent sea-horse Lady than the
smoke-breathing dragon that had cost the studio a small fortune.

Forgoing the cream and sugar already on the table, Quinn took a drink
of the black coffee and felt the welcome jolt of caffeine.  "This is
terrific."

"Oh, our Nora's a wonderful cook," Fionna said with a meaningful look
toward her granddaughter.  "You should try her scones.  They're sweet
enough to make a host of angels sing."  She pushed an ivy-sprigged
plate piled with golden-topped biscuits toward him.

"Gran," Nora warned softly.

isn't the man paying for two meals a day?"  Fionna asked with
exaggerated innocence.  "He might as well be getting his money's worth,
after all."

Steam burst forth in a fragrant cloud as Quinn cut the top off the
currant-studded scone.  One bite was all it took to convince him that,
matchmaking aside,

Fionna wasn't exaggerating her granddaughter's culinary talents.

"Delicious."

"And didn't I tell you?"  Fionna nodded her head.  Feeling the
now-familiar matchmaking noose tighten ever so slightly around his
neck, Quinn turned toward John, who was seated across the table, nose
buried in a thick textbook.

"That doesn't exactly look like light reading."

Serious blue eyes lifted from the pages.  "It's advanced biology. We're
having a test today on the skeletal system.  It's in preparation for
our Leaving Examination."

"Our John's the top student in the class," Celia informed Quinn with
the pride of an adoring younger sister.  "When one of the barn cats
died last winter during a snow, he wired its skeleton together.  After
boiling the flesh off the bones first of course.  Brother James, who's
taught the sciences practically forever, said it was the best senior
project he's ever seen."

"Certainly the least acceptable to discuss at breakfast," Fionna warned
sharply.

"The university admissions committee was also very impressed," Nora
said as she refilled Quinn's cup.  Obviously Celia was not the only
proud sister in the family.

"So, you'll be headed off to college in the fall?"

"Yes, sir.  Trinity."

"There was a time when a Catholic boy wouldn't have been allowed to
walk those hallowed Protestant halls," Fionna said huffily before
taking a long drink of bark brown tea.

Quinn saw John stiffen, then watched Nora lay a calming hand on her
brother's shoulder.  '"Times change," she said mildly.

"And isn't the university at Galway good enough?"

"It's a fine university, Gran."  John's tone remained measured.
Respectful.  And definitely at odds with the frustration in his eyes.
"But Trinity's medical school is one of the best in the world."

"You want to be a doctor?"  Quinn asked.

"I intend to be a doctor," John corrected politely, but firmly.  He
stood up.  "I'd best be getting down to the crossroads before I miss
the bus."

"You haven't eaten," Nora said worriedly.

"I'll take a scone with me."  He grabbed one from the plate.  "Wish me
luck."

As Nora reached up and brushed a shock of dark hair from his forehead,
Quinn caught the pair's familial resemblance.  "You don't need luck,"
she said fondly to her brother.  "But I'll be wishing it, anyway. Since
you asked."

Watching the grin brighten the usually serious thin face, Quinn was
impressed by the way she'd soothed the teenager's rising frustration
with merely a touch.  Even the obviously strong-minded Fionna appeared
to acquiesce to Nora.  He understood that while she may no longer carry
the Joyce name, Nora Fitzpatrick was the heart of this family.  Which
was, of course, one more reason to keep his distance.

His relationships with women had always remained uncomplicated, based
mostly on sex, with mutual respect and sometimes, as with Laura, even a
bit of humor thrown in.  But never had they involved more than the two
people who found enjoyment, if only for a brief time, in bed
together.

Nora Fitzpatrick, Quinn warned himself, came with more baggage than he
cared to deal with.  From what he'd been able to tell during his brief
time in Castlelough, her life was just one big complication after
another.

Celia pulled on a tomato-hued slicker and followed her brother out the
door.  Quinn heard the clatter of shoes on the stairs, and a moment
later Mary rushed through the kitchen, calling out a goodbye as she
grabbed up a slicker and umbrella from the row of hooks by the door.
For a girl who'd been considering surrendering her virginity only a few
hours earlier, she looked remarkably prim and conservative in her
schoolgirl uniform-starched white blouse and plaid skirt.

Quinn watched as she joined the others, including Rory, who'd run from
the barn, the hood of his jacket flapping down around his shoulders.
When Mary bent to tug the hood up, tying the cord beneath his chin,
Quinn found himself wishing he had a camera so he could freeze the
Hallmark-commercial family scene he'd never believed in on film. "Would
you be liking some bacon and eggs, Mr.  Gallagher?"

Last night, alone in his room, she'd called him Quinn.  Now apparently
they were back to formalities.  "Thanks, but the scones are fine."

"If you're certain."

"Positive."  She'd gotten that now-familiar concerned look in her eyes
again.  Quinn wasn't accustomed to anyone taking care of him and wasn't
sure he liked the idea.  "Your brother's a bit on the serious side."

She sighed, poured herself a cup of tea, stirred in some sugar and, as
if deciding to abandon her role of innkeeper, sat down in the abandoned
chair across the table from him.

"He wasn't when he was a child.  Of all of us, John was probably the
most like our father.  But our mother's death changed him."

"Death changes a lot of things."  Quinn's mother's death had sure as
hell changed his life.  Which hadn't been any great shakes before Angie
had been murdered by a violent man she'd made the mistake of bringing
home from a honky-tonk one fatal night, he reminded himself grimly

"Doesn't it just," she agreed, making Quinn think about what Mary had
told him about Nora giving up the convent life to return to Castlelough
to take care of her family.

They fell silent.  Lost in their own thoughts, neither noticed Fionna
leave the kitchen, a satisfied smile on her face.

Quinn could have stayed in the cozy kitchen with Nora all day.  Which,
of course, made it imperative that he leave.  He was almost to his
rented Mercedes when the kitchen door opened and Nora dashed out into
the rain that had, as she'd predicted, softened to mist.

"I thought you might be liking some biscuits for your afternoon tea"'
she said, holding the brown paper bag toward him.  "Or, as you
Americans say, cookies.  I hope you like oatmeal raisin."

"Who doesn't?"  Never, in his entire life, had a woman ever baked him
cookies.

"They're Rory's favorite.  And Celia's, as well."  She hesitated. "Mary
prefers chocolate."

"I've found most women do.  Not that she's quite a woman yet, but--"

"No," Nora interrupted on a little rush of breath.  "And I believe I
may have you to thank for that."

So she had been watching him last night.  "It wasn't that big a
deal."

"Perhaps not to you.  But it would have been to Mary if she'd gotten
herself pregnant."

"It takes two," Quinn reminded her.

"Aye.  And I worry that Jack's far too willing to do his part."  Her
eyes momentarily darkened with that professed worry.  Fascinated by the
way her face revealed her every thought, Quinn watched the clouds of
concern get chased away by the sunny warmth of her smile.

"Someday, hopefully a very long time from now, when she does make love
with a husband who adores her, she may look back on last night and
remember another man who cared enough to take the time to talk to a
confused young girl."

Appearing to act on impulse, she went up on her toes, intending to
brush his cheek with a quick kiss.  But Quinn proved faster, turning
his head and capturing her mouth.

Oh, Lord!  The taste of her was as potent as Irish whiskey, slamming
into him like a fist in the gut, then hitting his bloodstream with a
force that sent his head reeling and nearly buckled his knees.

He tangled one hand in her hair while the other skimmed down her back,
cupped her bottom, clad again in those snug blue jeans, and lifted her
off her feet.

As he deepened the kiss, Quinn heard a faint ragged moan and wondered
if it had escaped her throat or his; he felt trembling and wasn't
certain which of them it was.  It had to be her, he told himself as he
nipped at her satiny lower lip and drew a sound remarkably like a
purr.

Women had made him ache; they'd made him burn.  But no woman had ever
made his body pulse and vibrate with a need so strong it made him feel
as weak and powerless as the "before" guys in those bodybuilding ads in
the back of the comic books he'd filched when he was a kid.

Her hands were in his hair.  Beneath the onslaught of his mouth her
lips opened like pink rosebuds to the sun.  Her breasts were crushed
against his chest so tightly there was no way a single raindrop could
slip between them.

Quinn couldn't think.  Could barely breathe.  When he realized he was
actually considering ripping the car door open and taking her on the
leather seat, where anyone--her father, her grandmother, a passing
neighbor--could see them, he knew it was time to back away.

He lowered her feet to the ground, but unwilling to release her just
yet, skimmed his mouth up her cheek.  "You taste like rain."

"So do you."  She sounded every bit as shell-shocked as Quinn felt.

"Perhaps.  But I'll bet it tastes better on you" When he touched his
tongue to the slight hollow between her bottom lip and chin, she sighed
with ragged pleasure, then closed her eyes and tilted her head back,
offering her throat.

Quinn willingly obliged, nipping lightly, seductively, at the pale
flesh.  "Another minute of that and we would have been the ones in need
of a safe-sex lecture."

Her answer was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  "I don't
understand any of this."

She needn't have said the words.  As soon as she'd opened her eyes
again, he'd read the confusion--along with a lingering unwilling desire
in those swirling sea green depths.

"That makes two of us."  Because he still wanted her, dammit, still
needed her, he took his hands off the body he'd dreamed of claiming and
bent down to retrieve the brown paper bag that had fallen unnoticed to
the ground at their feet.

"There'll be nothing left but crumbs," she said.

She was nearly right.  He dipped into the bag, pulled out a decent-size
piece and popped it into his mouth.

"Best crumbs I've ever tasted."  Knowing he was playing with fire, but
unable to resist, he traced her lips with a fingertip.  "Almost as
sweet as the taste of the cook."

His words earned the intended smile.  "I do believe you've been kissing
the Blarney Stone, Quinn."

"The only thing in Ireland I want to kiss is you, Nora.  Again and
again."  He skimmed a glance over her.  "All over."

Her expressive eyes turned somber again.  "You don't sound very pleased
about that."

"You're right."  His finger glided down the slender throat he'd tasted
earlier.  Quinn felt the little leap in pulse beneath his touch,
experienced a similar leap himself, then continued tracing her
collarbone out to her shoulder.  "Having always prided myself on my
control, I'm not wild about the way something I've worked so hard to
develop could disintegrate the way it does whenever you get within
kissing distance."

"I feel the same way.  Which, I have to confess, worries me.  Since I
have Rory to think of," she reminded him.  And herself.

"There's no reason he should enter into it.  We're two adults, Nora. if
anything were to happen between us, it wouldn't have any effect on your
son."

"But don't you see?"  She dragged her hand through her hair.  "If I get
involved with you--"

"Don't look now, lady, but it's too damn late.  Because whether we like
it or not, whether we planned it or not, we are involved."

"Aye.  I'm afraid you're right."  She sighed.  "Which confuses me,
because I'm not accustomed to responding so recklessly to a man."

She was so damn earnest.  So sweet.  God help him, he was beginning to
actually like her.  The idea of relating to a woman on some basis other
than sex was something Quinn was going to have to think about.  After
he got away from here and his blood cooled and his head cleared.

"That's the idea," he said, flashing her another of the rare grins that
seemed to please her so.  "I expect women to throw themselves at me.
It's this uncharacteristic urge I keep having to grovel whenever I'm
alone with you that's got me feeling on edge."

Nora laughed.  "I can't imagine you ever groveling."

"Join the club, darling'.  Because I couldn't imagine it, either--until
I came to Castlelough and met you."  Wondering when he'd become
addicted to self-torture, he lightly touched his lips to hers again and
watched her eyes go opaque.

"I'll see you this evening," he said after he'd ended the brief kiss
all too soon.

"You'll be home for supper, then?"

Home.  He was no longer that young boy for whom the four-letter word
defined fear and pain.  He was no longer the wild rebellious teenager
Who'd discovered that the happy homes depicted on television programs
were nothing but a cruel Hollywood myth.  It was only a damn word;
there was no reason for him to suddenly feel as if he were
suffocating.

"It depends."  Because he needed space to breathe, to think, he jerked
open the driver's door.  "What were you thinking of fixing?"

"Leg of lamb."  There was no way Nora would admit she'd been thinking
more along the lines of veal stew when she'd first gotten up this
morning.  It had been five years since she'd looked forward to cooking
for any man other than her father and brothers.  Which made this an
occasion worth celebrating.

He climbed into the car and put the bag of oatmeal-raisin cookie crumbs
on the passenger seat beside him.  "You damn well don't fight fair,
Mrs.  Fitzpatrick."

She laughed again, feeling unreasonably young and lightheaded She felt,
Nora realized, almost as giddy as dear reckless Mary behaved whenever
that troublesome handsome-as-sin Jack came calling.

"Neither do you, Mr.  Gallagher."  She touched a finger to her lips and
imagined she could still taste his stunning kiss.

She watched his eyes darken as his gaze settled on her thoroughly
ravished mouth and knew he truly hadn't been lying when he'd admitted
he was as drawn to her as she was to him.

It was, Nora considered, a start.  Of what, she didn't know.  But
having grown up on a farm, where so much depended on the whims of
Mother Nature, and having learned the hard way the futility of
controlling her life, she was far more willing than Quinn to go along
with the flow.

She stood in the driveway, oblivious to the light rain as she watched
the silver car drive away.  She thought about dinner as she finally
returned to the house.  A cobbler would be nice.  Perhaps topped with
ice cream.  She remembered Sheila Monohan mentioning last summer that
the visiting American tourists did so like their ice cream.

She'd have to make a trip into town.  As she went upstairs to change
into dry clothes, Nora uncharacteristically decided to splurge on one
of those pretty bottles of cologne she'd seen in the front window of
Monohan' S Mercantile.

later that afternoon, her trip to the village and shopping completed, a
bottle of ridiculously expensive French perfume safely wrapped in white
tissue paper and tucked away in a pink-and-green-flowered shopping bag,
she drove to Kate's.  Now she was leaning against the open half door of
Emerald Dancer's box, watching her sister-in-law groom the mare.

"So which of the two of you don't you understand?"  Kate asked, after
listening to Nora's halting admission that she was confused about her
budding relationship with Quinn.  She was giving the horse a sponge
bath from a bucket of water.  "Your Yank novelist?  Or yourself?"

"Both," Nora decided after a moment's thought.  "I've never felt this
way before."

"And how's that?"

"Confused.  Conflicted.  Anxious."

The mare, who'd supposedly been responsible for Kate's broken
collarbone last year, stretched her head out, blew gently and bussed
Nora's cheek, as if offering sympathy.  Despite her distress, Nora
smiled and rubbed the horse's seal brown muzzle.

"Sounds like love to me," Kate diagnosed as she wrung out the sponge
then took out a pick and began cleaning the horse's hooves.

"Oh, it can't be!  Surely I'd recognize love."

"You've only been in love twice in your life," Kate reminded her. "That
doesn't exactly make you an expert on the subject."

"I know I loved Devlin with all my heart.  As much as a young girl can
love," Nora qualified.  It had also been an easy love.  Growing as
naturally as the wildflowers in springtime.

"And Conor?"

"Swept me away, Nora answered promptly.  When she scratched Emerald
Dancer behind the ear, the mare rolled her liquid brown eyes with
pleasure.  "I literally adored him."

"My brother was certainly dashing enough," Kate allowed.  "But I think
it was more a case of the way he took your mind off your troubles than
true love."

A lot had indeed happened then, what with poor little Celia being born,
her mam dying, Nora having to leave the security of the convent.  And
just when she'd been at the lowest point of her young life, Conor had
come riding his big white horse across the fields, looking for all the
world like one of those storybook knights in shining armor.  Nora
couldn't have resisted him if she'd tried.  Which she hadn't.

"I'm not certain I was capable of coherent thought during that time."

"And isn't that exactly my point?"  Kate swore as she scratched her
finger on a nail.  "Conor treated you like some fancy porcelain doll to
be put on the shelf."

"That's not true!"  Uneasy talking about her husband while thoughts of
Quinn were making her feel vaguely unfaithful, Nora began to pace in
front of the stall door.  "If anything, Conor complained I wasn't fancy
enough for his fast city friends."

"So perhaps I used the wrong description.  My point is, though, that
you and my brother fell in love at a time when you were in a vulnerable
needy state.  He never treated you like an adult woman."

That stung.  Partly, Nora admitted secretly, because it was so close to
the truth.  She'd always felt inferior to the dashing experienced Conor
Fitzpatrick.  For the first time in her life, she was forced to
seriously consider that her husband might have manipulated her
insecurities to his own advantage.

"And would you be saying that my husband shared every intimate aspect
of our private lives with you?"

Nora hated the idea of Kate knowing about their arguments.  And the
making up afterward.  Something that had occurred less and less after
Rory's birth.

"Of course nol" Kate moved on to another hoof.  Watching the mare
obediently lift her front leg for grooming, Nora knew there was no way
this sweet-tempered animal had ever thrown its rider.  Especially one
as experienced as Kate.  In a land known for Thoroughbred breeding,
she'd never seen anyone with such a talent for understanding horses as
her sister-in-law.

"But I have eyes, Nora," Kate continued.  "I could see that Conor
always thought of you as the child that had surprised him by growing up
while he was away riding his bloody horse all over the continent.  But
he didn't want you to be too grown-up.  Because then he'd risk losing
his power over you."

"Why are we talking about my deceased husband?"  Nora asked.  Having
told herself for the past five years that her volatile marriage would
have worked--she would have made it work-she wasn't comfortable
examining it under a microscope now Especially since such examination
would prove fruitless.  "The problem is Quinn Gallagher," she reminded
her sister-in-law.

"And how he makes you feel."

"Aye."  Nora sighed.  "It's bad enough that I don't understand what I'm
feeling.  The man is an expert at hiding his emotions, Kate."  Unlike
Conor, who'd always been remarkably vocal about his likes and dislikes.
"I can't get behind that wall he's built around himself."  Nor read his
thoughts in those coffee-dark eyes.

"That's simple.  If you want to understand Quinn Gallagher, all you
have to do is read his books."

"I read the banshee story."

"And?"  Emerald Dancer's hooves polished, Kate began smoothing tangles
out of the glossy black tail.

"And it scared me half out of my wits."  Enough so that she honestly
hadn't wanted to subject herself to another of his novels.

"You obviously just skimmed the surface.  You need to reread the book,
Nora, and realize what it's really about."

"What's to realize?  It's a tale about a young boy who ignores the
advice passed down from his elders and looks into the face of a
banshee, who, just as the legend predicts, attacks him and leaves him
permanently scarred."

It was a popular folk story.  Didn't Brady tell it himself?  But
somehow Quinn had managed to strike a dark dread deep into Nora's very
core, leaving her feeling unsettled.

"Exactly."  Kate nodded her satisfaction as she switched ends and began
pulling the comb through the animal's long silky mane.  "The scar's the
key, of course."

"Surely you're not suggesting that the scar on Quinn's cheek comes from
a midnight meeting with a banshee?"

"Of course I'm not.  Jaysus, you can be so literal, Nora.  If you'd
paid more attention during literature lectures, instead of memorizing
all those prayers and quotations that won you honors and holy cards in
religious class, you'd understand that the scar on the boy's face in
the story is obviously a metaphor for the damage done to his heart. And
perhaps his psyche."

Nora thought about that for a moment and decided that as improbable as
it had first sounded, Kate was maybe on to something.  "The article in
the Independent said his mother had died tragically when he was young.
Do you think it's possible--"

"That he witnessed her death?"  Kate broke in.  "I'd say, given the
tone of his later books, which all deal in some edgy way with the
subject of parents and children, that it's highly likely.

"A young boy saw something he shouldn't.  Something beyond the pale.
And it left him scarred for life."

Kate nodded, apparently satisfied by her thumbnail psychological
profile.  "if you want to understand your inscrutable American, Nora,
all you have to do is read his books," she repeated.

"if you're right about Quinn's past," Nora mused

"then perhaps I'd be wise to keep my distance.  Perhaps whatever
happened to him is too terrible to allow him to ever be able to open up
to a woman."  To open up to her, Nora thought.  To trust her.

Kate paused while gathering up the grooming equipment and slanted her a
knowing look.  "You know the old saying--Love heals all wounds."

"How can I begin to know if I love him?  When I don't know who he
is?"

"I told you--"

"I know."  Nora blew out a frustrated breath, ruffling her tawny bangs.
"Read his books."

"I'd not be knowing how a writer's mind works," Kate admitted.  "But if
it's true that a novelist writes about what he knows, then Quinn
Gallagher has obviously experienced more than his share of monsters."

"Then the man who wrote The Night of the Banshee definitely isn't one
to settle down with a wife and ready-made family," Nora said,
conveniently overlooking the fact that her relationship with Quinn

Gallagher, such as it was, hadn't even neared the point of either of
them making a commitment.

"True enough.  But mind you, that was his first published book," Kate
pointed out.  "And although he might not have realized it himself yet,
the man who wrote The Lady of the Lake, a story about the ultimately
vital sacrifice a mother--even an inhuman one covered with green scales
who lurks at the bottom of a rural Irish lake--is willing to make to
save her child, is literally starving for the love of family."

And here, from John's description, Nora had thought it merely another
gory monster tale to be

* read with the lights on.  "Perhaps I should read it."  Kate."

"And isn't that just what I've been saying?"

Chapter Eleven

The Vacant Chair

The Irish Rose was packed to the rafters.  Some of the drinkers--like
Brady and his friend Fergus--were regulars, some were members of the
film crew, looking for a congenial place to pass the evening after a
long day of work, and still others appeared to be locals drawn to the
pub in hopes of mingling with the rich and famous.

Although Quinn had already observed the Irish to be less likely to fawn
over fame, he'd nevertheless signed several paper napkins and even a
few books, which the owners, upon finding him in The Rose, had returned
home to fetch.

It was getting late and Quinn knew that Nora would be putting dinner on
the table soon.  Just the thought of what the woman could undoubtedly
do with a tender leg of Irish lamb was enough to make his mouth water.
Although he'd taught himself to cook, Quinn was more accustomed to
nuking a frozen dinner in the microwave every night.  Which made Nora's
culinary inducement nearly impossible to resist.

But he continued to sit in this noisy bar with the ceiling lowered
nearly a foot by the cloud of blue-gray smoke, listening to Brady spin
tale after entertaining tale, because it wasn't merely the promised
meal that was proving to be such a siren's call.  What he wanted, Quinn
realized, as he picked at a basket of chips with scant interest, was to
sit down at the old pine table with Nora and tell her about the hellish
day he'd had.  A day when neither Laura or her co star Dylan Harrison,
had been able to make their way through a single scene without at least
a dozen retakes.  A day when the on-and-off again drizzle disrupted
shooting, causing an already testy Jeremy Converse to turn downright
dictatorial.  Which, needless to say, only made the actors more tense
and the camera crew screw up the few scenes Laura and Dylan didn't
blow.

And then there'd been the problem with the mechanical creature.  Some
malfunction was causing the Lady to emit a deep humming noise, which
might have worked if she'd been a llama.  But the tuneless drone tended
to take away from her ferociousness when the time came for her to fight
back, to protect her infant from the treacherous scientists.

Quinn wanted to tell Nora all this.  And then, after she'd displayed
the proper sympathy-which he knew he could expect from such a
warmhearted woman--he wanted to hear all about her day.

Although he realized that he had no idea how she actually spent the
hours he was away from the farm, the images that came to mind were
seductively domestic.  He pictured her kneading bread dough, imagined
her feeding the red chickens their cracked corn and tending to the
cows, like some rosy-cheeked milkmaid from an old painting.  He wanted
to bathe in the soothing warmth of her smile as she returned from
gathering wildflowers in the meadow, wanted to kiss her inviting lips
and feel the cares of his day melt away.

If it were only that simple, Quinn figured he could still deal with it.
He didn't need a novelist's gift for characterization to know that Nora
was the quintessential earth mother, so different from his own mother
that the two women could have been born on different planets.  So it
was only natural for him to be drawn to her, he kept telling himself.

But, dammit, there was more.  He also wanted to hear that John had aced
his science exam; he wanted to find out how Mary had done on her Gaelic
test and whether the foolish Jack had come to his senses and realized
the pretty teenage girl's true worth.  He wanted Rory to tell him more
about the Lady, he wanted to look down into Celia's young face,
surrounded by that wild cloud of fiery hair and wonder if Nora had
looked like that when she was a little girl.

And, God help him, he was even willing to put up with more of Fionna's
sly matchmaking.

And because he wanted all that--so much it terrified him all the way to
the bone--Quinn was determined to stay away from the farm tonight.

Brady had launched into an old folktale about a beautiful Irish maiden
kidnapped by a Norman king.  He was a natural orator; his lilting
rhythm, timing, phrasing, extravagant gestures, as he related his tales
of battles, courtships, tragedies, saints, hermits, fairies and magic,
all harkened back to the ancient days when the ability to spin a tale
earned a man property, privilege and a seat at the table with the
king.

The recital of the king's attack of lust when he'd first caught sight
of the young woman while riding through the countryside reminded Quinn
of his own reaction to Nora.

He liked looking at her.  What man wouldn't?  He wanted her.  Again,
what man with blood stirring in his veins wouldn't?  He wanted to make
love--have sex, he corrected swiftly--with her all night long.  So
what?

That only proved he was a normal healthy male.

Unfortunately everything about the lissome widow Fitzpatrick defined
permanency, while his life was anything but.  There was, after all,
certainly nothing permanent about sex.  Nothing constant about his
career, which right now was burning as bright and hot as a star.  But
Quinn understood all too well how stars could explode and turn
themselves into black holes.  Even his house on the Monterey coast was
leased, with a thirty-day out clause that allowed him to pull up stakes
anytime be wanted.

It wouldn't be difficult to win Nora's warm and generous heart.  She'd
already let him know, in so many ways, that it could be his for the
taking.  But didn't she understand that when he left Ireland he'd be
handing it back to her in tatters?

of course she didn't, Quinn decided.  Because, although the necessity
of running a farm and keeping her family on the straight and narrow
required her to be practical, the fact remained that the woman was a
solid romantic to the core.

That idea reminded him of something Laura had said to him in the
airport.  Something about their being two of a kind.  Not expecting
happily-ever-afters.  Recalling he'd just found the perfect hideout,
Quinn downed the last of this latest Guinness and left the bar, then
headed the two blocks down the street to the Flannery House Hotel.

"Well, well."  Laura's smile, as she opened the door to him, reminded
Quinn of a cat who'd just caught sight of a dish of cream.  "This is a
surprise."

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in."  Belatedly
realizing that she was dressed--just barely--for bed, he glanced in the
direction of the closed bedroom door.  "If I'm interrupting anything

"Don't be an idiot."  She took hold of his arm and urged him expertly
across the threshold.  The fingernails on his sleeve were
uncharacteristically unpainted, as her role of Shannon McGuire
demanded.  Like too much else these days, they reminded him of Nora's.
"I just got out of the tub and was thinking of going to bed with a good
book."  Her eyes handed him a gilt-edged invitation.  "I'd much rather
go to bed with a good man.  Or even better, a bad one."

Quinn stopped midway across the living room.  "Do you have a minibar in
here?"

"Of course."  She eyed him with what appeared to be actual concern.
"Are you sure you want anything else to drink?"

"I don't recall hearing your joining the temperance police."  His tone
warned her to back off.

"Darling, you know I've never been a fan of temperance in anything."
She lifted a hand to his cheek, in much the same way Nora had at the
lake, but surprisingly, Laura's touch stirred not a single need to
touch in return.  "I just didn't want you to be disappointed."

"You've never disappointed me, Laura."

"Well, of course I haven't."  Blond waves that had spent most of the
day covered by an auburn wig bounced as she shook her head.  "I'm
merely concerned that if you add any more alcohol to your bloodstream,
you might have difficulty ... well, you know..."

"Performing?"

"Exactly."  Her smile reminded him of the gold stars his third-grade
teacher in San Antonio used to put on his spelling papers.

"You've never had any complaints before."

"You've never shown up at my door three sheets to the wind before."

True enough.  Back home, in what Quinn had come to consider his "real
life," the most he ever drank was an occasional beer or glass of wine
with dinner.

"Why don't you let me worry about my performance level?"  His tone was
mild, but his eyes had hardened to obsidian.

"Whatever you say, darling."  Knowing him well enough not to push,
Laura flashed the quick smile he'd come to recognize as her
professional one.

She opened the bar with a small brass key and bent over it in a way
that lifted the hem of her robe to the top of her thighs, just high
enough to assure him she wasn't wearing anything underneath the ivory
silk.

"We seem to have Guinness, H&p, a selection of Irish whiskeys--"

"Any scotch?"  Since his troubles had all begun when he'd landed on
this damn green island, Quinn was determined that the rest of the night
be a reprieve from everything Irish.

"let me see."  She skimmed a finger over the miniature bottles.  "No.
But there's some gin."

Quinn hated gin.  It was what his mother had always drunk, and even
after all these years the smell of juniper berries could make his
stomach heave.  "That'll do."

When he experienced more anticipation watching her pour the dear liquor
into a glass than he did the provocative sight of silk-draped breasts,
Quinn knew he was in deep trouble.

After a bit more consideration, she settled on Baileys Irish Cream for
herself.  Then she crossed the room again with her long-legged stride
and settled down beside him on the sofa.

"To old friends."  She handed him the glass of gin and lifted her own.
"And good times."

"I'll drink to that."  He downed the gin in long thirsty swallows like
a bitter-tasting medicine, enjoying the burn.

"Gracious.  Aren't we in a hurry?"  She circled the crystal rim of her
glass with the tip of her finger.  "I do hope that's not a precursor of
things to come."

"I told you."  Quinn stood up and went over to the bar, pulling out the
first bottle within reach.  "Why don't you let me worry about that?"

"Well, aren't you the old grouch tonight."  She put her drink down on
the coffee table and rose in a smooth lithe movement.  "What's got into
you, sweetheart?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The only reason he didn't complain when she took the bottle of Power
whiskey from his hand was that he didn't want her to know how desperate
he was for the mind-dulling effects of the alcohol.

"I'll bet you're just horny."  She looped one arm around his neck and
deftly slipped the palm of the other between them, caressing his groin
in a way that caused his body to respond exactly as she intended.  "I
was thinking about you while I was in my bath."

Her voice turned throaty as she looked directly into his eyes.  "While
I was running the sponge over my breasts, I kept remembering the way
you love to lick your way from tip to tip.  And when I was washing my
legs, I thought about that first time, when we went to that patty at
Jeremy's house in Bel Air and you dragged me into the bathroom, told me
to wrap my legs around your waist and took me right there against the
marble sink."

"I was crazy that night."  Crazy with lust.

"You were wonderful."  Her fingers squeezed his growing erection with a
practiced expertise.  "I nearly came just thinking about it."  Her
mouth touched his, warm and oh so willing.  "Thank goodness I didn't
give in to impulse and start without you.

The kiss was wet and deep and involved a great deal of the tongue
action Laura was so good at.  The familiar taste, tinged with the sweet
Irish Cream, created a curl of lust that sent the blood rushing from
his head to other more vital organs.

A very strong part of Quinn--a throbbing primal male part--wanted
Laura.  Even as he told himself he owed Nora nothing, he knew that to
take what the sexy actress was offering would only leave him feeling
guilty afterward.

He took his hands from where they seemed to have landed on her hips and
captured both of hers.  "I can't do this."

"Of course you can, darling."  Her smile echoed the feline purr of her
voice.  "You're doing rather well, so far."

"It's not that."  Calling himself every kind of fool, he eased a little
away from her.  "You know you've always been able to turn me on--"

"Believe me, Quinn, the feeling's mutual."

How the hell was he going to explain the unexplainable?  Especially to
this woman with the seemingly one-track mind.

"You're going to think I'm nuts."

She surprised him by laughing at that.  "Of course you are.  That's one
of the things I've always liked about you.  Most of us run away from
our monsters, Quinn.  You embrace them, make them part of you, until
it's difficult to tell where you stop and they begin.  It gives you an
edgy dangerous quality not many women can resist."

Quinn had a choice.  He could deny her unflattering accusation.  Or,
since he'd already decided he wasn't going to sleep with her, he could
at least acknowledge that there was some truth to her words.

"I never would have suspected you of being a student of human
nature."

"A slick shallow woman--an actress--such as myself?"  she asked with a
careless toss of her blond head.

"I didn't mean--"

"Of course you did.  And believe me, you're not the first male to only
take the time to look at the surface glitz.  But you see, darling--"
she slipped a hand free of his and trailed it down his cheek "--that's
precisely the point.  You're also not the only person in the world who
prefers keeping private things exactly that.  Private."

It was yet another surprise in a week full of surprises.  "And here I
always thought I was good at characterization."

"You are.  But the one thing you overlooked is that I'm a much better
actress than people give me credit for."

And apparently, he thought, a much deeper person.  "Hell."  Quinn
turned away and picked up the bottle of Powers again.  He needed a
drink and he needed it now.  "Now I feel as if I'm just some creep
who's been using you."

"Well, of course you have."  She plucked the bottle from his hand once
more.  "You'll thank me in the morning for this," she assured him
before returning to the original topic.  "We've always used each
other." Her sigh caused her breasts to rise and fall in a way that had
Quinn telling himself he had to be either a lunatic or a fool to turn
down what this woman was offering.  "Now I'm afraid we won't be able to
do that anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not our little sex game anymore, silly," she said with
the trademark pout the cameras--and her legion of male fans--adored. "I
have this horrible feeling I'm about to do something really stupid."

"What's that?"  Quinn figured that after tonight he probably owned the
world title for stupid human tricks.  "I'm going to tell you how to
seduce your little Irish farmer's daughter."

"What?"  Quinn stared at her.  "How the hell..."

"It's common knowledge, darling.  Ever since you went out of your way
to practically adopt the woman's son."

"I don't believe this!"  He raked a hand through his hair.  "The kid's
into sea creatures, like a lot of those dinosaur-loving kids that made
Jurassic Park such a hit.  So I let him hang around while we shot some
of the Lady scenes.  What's the big deal?"

"How about the fact that you're going on a father-and-son trek with
him?"

Damn.  Quinn decided he'd have to kill Jeremy Converse.  All he'd done
was inform the director he was going to be away for a weekend, and the
next thing he knew, his life was fodder for location gossip.  Hell,
next he'd find himself on the front page of the damn tabloids.
Undoubtedly with a photo of the mechanical monster accompanying a
headline that the Lady of the Lake was pregnant with his love-creature.
"It's just a camping trip," he grumbled.  The Guinness buzz was
beginning to wear off, the gin had made his stomach roil and he could
feel the distant twinges of a hangover beginning to build like a
thunderhead behind his eyes.

"Well, I for one think it's very sweet of you.  But if you think
sleeping on the wet ground with a bunch of first-graders is going to
get you an invitation into the boy's mother's bed, you've
miscalculated."

"I didn't volunteer to go on any bloody trek to seduce anyone's mother,
dammit!"  It was the same thing he'd told Nora.  It was also the
truth.

"You've no idea how relieved I am to hear that, Quinn.  Because I'd
really begun to fear you were slipping."  She returned the miniature
bottle of liquor to the bar, closed the door and locked it, slipping
the key into the pocket of her robe for safekeeping.

"Nora Fitzpatrick might be different from the women you're used to. But
believe me, darling, there's not a female in the world who can resist
the Prince Charming treatment."

"Prince Charming?"  He had to laugh at that.  The one thing no one had
ever called him was charming.

"I'm talking grand romantic gestures."

"Aw, Christ..."

"Don't scoff.  They work.  The problem with you is that sex has always
come so easily you've never had to work at it like a normal guy.  Since
you're a screenwriter these days, it shouldn't be that big a leap to
think of Bogie and Bacall.  Bogie and Bergman.  Bogie and Hepburn--"

"Don't look now, sweetheart, but you seem to be stuck in a rut."

"I happen to think Bogart was the sexiest man God ever plunked down on
the planet.  And believe me, darling, I'm not alone, which, since the
two of you are so much alike, has always worked in your favor."

"I've never seen myself as Humphrey Bogart."

"I'm not surprised, since men seldom see themselves clearly.  It's one
of your sex's most endearing little flaws.  And if you can't imagine
Bogie, then I suppose Gable will always do in a pinch.  Just the
thought of Rhett and Scarlett is guaranteed to make any female's heart
go pitter-pat."

She gave him a small smile.  "Sweep Nora Fitzpatrick off her feet,
Quinn, then once you've got her in your arms, carrying her off to your
bed will be a cakewalk."

Quinn hated to admit it, but the idea of carrying Nora up a curving
antebellum staircase, then spending a long lusty night ravishing her
held more than a little appeal.

"I'll think about it."

"Of course you will, sugar."  Her voice had turned magnolia sweet,
revealing the Confederate roots that had won her the Miss Georgia tiara
before she'd packed her Gucci bags and decided to try her luck in
Hollywood.  "Tomorrow, at Tara."

She patted his cheek again, this time in the fond way a mother might a
child.  "Meanwhile, since we're friends now, and everyone knows friends
don't let friends drive drunk, you might as well spend the night here.
On the couch," she said pointedly.

That was probably the best damn idea she'd come up with yet.  Quinn
felt on the verge of crashing

"Maybe just a nap.". "You'll spend the night," she repeated.  "And
don't worry about the widow Fitzpatrick.  Even an Irish convent-bred
girl isn't immune to the green-eyed monster.  You staying away the
night is bound to pique her interest."

Quinn wondered if she could possibly be right.  Then again, he reminded
himself, despite Laura's claims to the contrary, Nora wasn't like other
women.

And there he was, he thought later as he lay on his back on the
too-short couch and wished like hell his head would stop spinning,
right back where he'd started when he'd dropped into The Rose with the
stupid cockeyed plan to hide out from Nora Fitzpatrick.

What the bell was the woman doing to his mind?

Chapter Twelve

In Search of a Heart

He hadn't come home.  Hadn't been lured by the leg of lamb.  Or her.
After reading The Lady of the Lake last night, Nora realized she'd been
foolish to believe he might.  Kate had been right when she'd insisted
that beneath his horror stories Quinn had, indeed, been writing about
families.  The problem was, of course, it was also more than a little
obvious that his view of a family unit was not a reassuring one.

He'd warned her not to try to get inside his barriers, that she
wouldn't like what she'd see.  Well, hadn't it turned out that he was
right?  She'd gotten a glimpse of the man behind the stony facade, but
rather than frighten her away, as he'd undoubtedly expected, it had
only made her heart ache for anyone forced to go through life so
alone.

Quinn was not an easy man to know.  He would be an even harder man to
love.  And in truth Nora still wasn't certain she was falling in love
with him.  But she did know that if she didn't take the risk--if she
didn't reach out to him--she'd spend the rest of her life regretting
her fearfulness.  For her own sake.  And for his.

She was at work pouring grain into individual troughs, thinking that if
the roof repairs didn't prove too dear, she'd be able to use the rest
of Quinn's rental money to buy that automatic feeder she'd seen at
Murphy's Grain and Supply, when Brady entered the milking barn.

"Well, isn't this a surprise," she said.  "Good evening."

"And a lovely evening to you, daughter."  Brady gave her a peck on the
cheek.  "I thought I'd drop by to offer my help."

"With the milking?"  This was a first.  Nora couldn't remember the last
time her father had been anywhere near the milking barn.

"Oh, you seem to have that in hand well enough," he said.  "Besides, I
never have understood these newfangled machines.  Now, if you needed
someone to milk the old-fashioned way--"

"I'd still have to go out and find John."  Her smile took any sting
from her playful accusation.  "As Kate always says, the gods gave us
all our own talents, Da.  Yours isn't farming."

"And isn't that the gods' own truth?"  He sighed.  "I'm afraid I've
been as bad at parenting my children as I've been a farmer."

"No, that's not true at all!  You've been a wonderful father."

"I wanted to be."  He sighed again, tipped over an empty milk can and
perched atop it.  "But things got difficult after your dear mother
passed on."

"It was a hard time for everyone."

"Aye.  But hardest on you.  Because I wasn't pulling my weight."

"You were grieving."  Nora had almost forgotten how silent he'd gone,
barely saying more than two words at a stretch for months.

"My children were grieving, as well.  And I was too blind to see it."

Nora wondered what had brought on this uncharacteristic introspection.
"It's all in the past now," she said.  "We all survived."

"Thanks to you."  He took out his pipe, looked around the pristine
barn, then, seeming to realize smoking wasn't in order, returned it to
his shirt pocket.  "I don't believe I ever told you how much I
appreciated the way you took charge of the house.  And the children
have grown up to become a credit to your mothering talents."

"Thank you.  But they were good children to begin with.  I just gave
them a little direction."

Her father had always been lavish with compliments.  But they'd been
only surface statements, meant to charm.  Never had any of them made
her eyes grow moist as they did now.  She wondered again what had
brought all this on, then felt her blood turn to ice as a possible
answer came into her mind.

"Are you all right?"  she asked.

"Me?"  He put a hand against his chest.  "Of course I am.  Why wouldn't
I be?"

"Because it's not like you to be so serious.  And because Dr.
Flannery--"

"Don't you go paying him any mind.  What does he know?  He's still wet
behind the ears, Nora.  Why, the last time I was in there for that
examination you insisted on, I took a close look at that fancy Latin
medical degree hanging in that fine oak frame on his wall, and do you
know what I discovered?"

"What?"

"That the ink was still wet."

She laughed as she was meant to.  Then immediately sobered.  "I worry
about you."

"You worry about the entire world, Nora, darling.  It's one of your
finest traits.  It's also your curse.  Because sometimes you care too
much."

"I'd like to know what's wrong with not wanting my father to drop dead
some morning of a heart attack."

"Now, that's not going to--"

"Dr.  Flannery

"Jaysus, don't I wish old Doc Walsh hadn't retired?  Ever since that
pup Flannery took over his practice, things have gotten depressingly
grim down at the surgery."

Nora pounced on his muttered complaint like a barn cat might pounce on
a fat field mouse.  "So, he has told you something."

"Only a bunch of fancy medical words that boil down to the simple fact
that while I've always done my best to avoid growing up, I'm not
getting any younger.  Then he charged me ten pounds to tell me what I
already knew."  Brady took out the pipe again, but resisted filling it.
Instead, he turned it over and over in his hands, as if choosing his
words carefully.

"But I don't want to ruin a lovely spring evening talking about Dr.
Flannery.  Fact is, I've been doing some thinking."

Realizing that she wasn't going to learn anything more about the state
of her father's health, Nora decided that since he'd obviously had some
important reason for tracking her down, she should at least hear him
out.  "Oh?"  she responded noncommittally.

"About you."

"I see," she said, not seeing anything at all.

"I was wondering if you ever think about what you've missed, giving up
your vocation."

The question came as such a surprise, she couldn't stop the laugh from
escaping.  "Oh, Da."  She went over to where he was sitting, crouched
and twined her arms around his shoulders.  "I never truly had a
vocation.  I suspected that was the case even before Mam died.  And I
was certain when I agreed to marry Conor.  And when the midwife placed
Rory in my arms, not a single doubt remained that I'd done exactly the
right thing in leaving the convent."

"You're a natural-born mother, 'tis true," he agreed, his eyes going
bright with unshed tears.  "You should have more children."

"I'd like that.  Especially now that John and Mary will be leaving home
soon.  But perhaps it might be best if I were to find myself a husband
first."

"Father O'Malley would undoubtedly prefer that order."  He gave a quick
grin that reminded Nora more of the father that could be both charming
and exasperating at the same time.  The father she adored.  "Did I ever
tell you how your mam and I met?"

"Of course.  At the horse fair in Ballinasloe.  You were there to tell
your stories.  And she was the horse trader's daughter."

"The horse trader's beautiful daughter."  He gave her a long perusal.
"You have the look of your mother.  The coloring's different, of
course, since you inherited your grandmother Fionna's bright hair and
Eleanor's was jet-black.  But you favor her around the eyes.  And your
mouth's just the same... "There are times, when you smile, that my
foolish heart skips a beat because it gets confused and believes Elly's
come back to me."

"There are times when Rory reminds me of Conor in that same way," Nora
admitted quietly.  A cow mooed impatiently, reminding her that if she
wanted it to stand still for the milking, she'd best be hurrying up
with the feeding.

"Aye."  He fell silent for a time.  Understanding that this
conversation was far more personal--and thus more difficult--than any
of the stories that tripped so easily off his tongue, Nora waited him
out again.  "Your grandfather Noonan didn't want your mother marrying
me."

"Really?"  Her only memory of her mother's father, who'd died when she
was younger than Rory, was the scent of horse and leather clinging to
his clothes, and the peppermints he always carried in his shirt pocket
for her.

"They were from Dublin.  City folk, from south of the Liffey.  Oh, he
wasn't about to let his only daughter take off to the west with some
poor farmer who was scarcely more secure than a traveler.  A man who'd
never be able to buy her all the knickknacks and doodads women like."

"Mam was never interested in possessions," Nora assured him.  "She
cared about people.  About family."  "Aye.  That's what she tried to
tell her father when I asked for her hand, but he was a hard and
stubborn man, and not one given to compromise."

"Yet you were married."

"Only because of the kidnapping."

"What?"  Nora stared at this man she thought she knew so well.  "You
actually dared kidnap my mother?"

"Well, she wasn't your mother at the time, mind you," he said.  "And
besides, 'twas her own idea.  So her father would have to permit the
marriage."

"I don't understand."

"Well, of course, things are different now, what with young people
living together right out in the open without even bothering to stop by
the church to exchange vows along the way.  But in those days, if a
young woman spent the night with a man, no matter how innocent the
occasion..."

"Her reputation would be ruined if they didn't get married," Nora
guessed.  Despite Mary's accusations about Jack's new girlfriend
supposedly sleeping around, it wasn't that different even these days
out here in the country.

"Aye."  He chuckled a bit at the long-ago time.  "Your grand da Noonan
couldn't get Elly to the altar fast enough.  He even tried to bribe the
priest into forgoing the usual posting of the bans, because he was
fearful she was pregnant and he didn't want people gossiping about his
short-term grandchild."

"But she wasn't.  Pregnant."  Nora couldn't believe she was having this
conversation with her father.  "Wait."  She held up her hand.  "Forget
I asked that."  Nora didn't want to think about her parents' sex
life.

"Finn was born nine months to the day of our wedding night.  And then
Michael.  And as much as

I love both your older brothers, I have to confess that I wept like a
baby the stormy day you came into the world."  He rubbed his chin and
his eyes took on a faraway look, as if remembering the event in detail.
"A man always wants sons.  I suppose you could say we even expect
them.

"But ah, Nora, when I looked down at you, with that fuzz of me own
mam's brilliant hair atop your wee pink head and your wide blue eyes
that hadn't yet turned to emerald, I told your mother that no man had
ever been so blessed.  To have such a perfect wife.  And equally
perfect daughter."

Nora's eyes filled at the obviously heartfelt revelation.  "Now look
what you've gone and done," she complained, sniffling back her tears.
"You've made me all weepy."

"You should never apologize for weeping, Nora.  Didn't God give us
tears to help us keep our emotions from getting all bottled up?  Even
if there are some who won't be understanding that it's better to let
those feelings out and fresh air in?"

"Ah."  Nora nodded, finally understanding her father's unexpected
appearance in the milking barn.  "I was wondering if you were going to
ask me about Quinn."  "I've seen the way you look at him,
daughter--with your heart on your sleeve and shining bright in your
eyes.  It's the way I remember your mother looking at me."

"And the way you looked back at her?"

"Later on.  In the beginning I suspect I had more of the look of how
Gallagher looks at you, when he thinks no one is watching."  Brady
began fiddling with the pipe again.  "Men aren't the same as women,
Nora.  My da once told me that a woman has to be in love with a man to
want to make love to him.  But a man just has to be in the room."

Even though she was growing nearly as embarrassed as Brady obviously
was by the turn the unusually intimate conversation had taken, Nora
laughed again.  "Is it always that way, do you think?"

"Most cases I know of, aye."  He pulled off his cap and dragged his
fingers through his curly gray hair.  "Jaysus, I wish your mam was here
to have this talk with you!  It's a mother's duty, after all, to
discuss such things with her daughter."

"But I've already been married."

"You were a child.  You loved Conor the way a young girl loves an older
man who sweeps her off her feet.  You were blinded by a bright dazzling
sun, Nora, which worried me at the time, but in truth, I was so
relieved you were going to marry and take the burden of the younger
children from my shoulders that I refused to admit to myself that the
marriage wasn't in your best interests."

"I loved Conor.  I would have made it work."

"You would have tried," Brady allowed.  "And had your heart shattered
in the trying.  You weren't the first woman in Conor Fitzpatrick's
life, Nora.

And although it pains me to say it, darling, you weren't the last."

Oh, God.  She'd known that of course.  Even as innocent as she'd been,
she'd sensed the fact of Conor's infidelity with a wife's intuition of
such things.  But until now, she'd never so much as allowed herself to
state that terrible fear out loud.  And if others in Castlelough had
known about his other women, which she realized now they undoubtedly
had, none, not even Kate, had ever dared say it to her face.

She swallowed, trying to push the words past the lump in her throat.
"If it pains you so to tell me this, how do you think it makes me
feel?"

"I'm sure it's far from easy.  But I also notice you're not arguing the
point."

Nora turned away and wrapped her arms tightly around herself.  It hurt.
Heaven help her, it hurt horribly!  She didn't want to deal with this.
Not now.  Not when she was so confused about her feelings for Quinn.

She took a deep breath, then whirled back toward him.

"Why?"  she asked on a fractured desperate sound.  "My husband has been
dead for five years.  Why bring this up now?"

"Because I was a selfish bastard when you needed a father's protection.
I should have kept you from marrying a man who was so wrong for you."

"There wouldn't have been anything you could have done.  After all,
you've already told me that

Grandda Noonan couldn't stop Mam from marrying you."

"Aye.  And he was wrong about what was truly good for his daughter.
Because although I tested her temper more often than perhaps I should
have, Eleanor was happy in our marriage.  But he had no way of knowing
I could make her happy at the time, so he did what he thought was best.
He fought for her.  To protect her."

Brady pushed himself off the milk can with a weariness of body and
spirit Nora hadn't witnessed since her mother's death.  When he
enveloped her in his arms, she remembered him holding her exactly the
same way the first time she'd fallen off a horse.  At the time, unable
to draw a decent breath, she'd been certain she was dying.  But it
turned out that she'd only had the wind knocked out of her, and later
he'd taken her into town for ice cream.  Strangely, she felt exactly
the same way now.

As she breathed in the familiar comforting scents of hair tonic and
tobacco and felt the outline of the pipe he always carried in his
breast pocket, Nora wished her current troubles could be solved with a
vanilla ice-cream cone.

"If Conor was the sun, Quinn Gallagher is the cold dark side of the
moon, Nora.  And while I might be able to understand how you'd find
yourself drawn to a man who's the exact opposite of your first husband,
I'm fearful he's going to hurt you more than Conor Fitzpatrick ever
could have."

Nora opened her mouth, prepared to argue.  But couldn't.

"You may be right."  There wasn't any reason to try to keep fooling
herself.  She'd already reached the point of no return, whatever
happened between her and Quinn during the next three weeks, she'd
foolishly let him into her heart.  Deep enough that she knew he'd be
taking a bit of it with him when he left Castlelough.

Which of course, she reminded herself firmly, he'd be doing.  "And I
don't mean to quibble, Da.  But I seem to remember you throwing Quinn
and me together that first Sunday morning."

"Ah, but that was before I knew his true nature."  Brady frowned.  "Now
I suppose you'll be telling me that you can handle whatever the Yank
dishes out?"

She met his worried look with a level one of her own.  "I'm stronger
than I look."

"And don't I know that?  But of all the eligible bachelors in
Castlelough, why did you have to pick the American?"

"I didn't pick him.  Kate believes Mam did.  Because he'd be a
challenge.  As her own husband was."

Brady gave Nora another long look.  Then chuckled.  "Aye, that sounds
just like something your mother would do."

They both began to laugh at the absurdity of it all,

which was how Quinn found them, father and daughter, arms wrapped
around each other, tears streaming down their faces.

"I'm sorry."  Uncomfortable with such an open display of emotion, he
began to back out of the open doorway.  "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Don't worry about it, my boy," Brady said, swiping at his wet face
with the back of his hands.  "I was just about to be on my way into the
village.  You can take my place helping Nora with the milking."

He left before Quinn could think up a good excuse to escape with him.

"Nice place."  He looked around the remarkably clean barn and decided
open-heart surgery could be performed on the spotless concrete floor.
"I guess I expected something a bit more primitive."

"Ah, there you go again, Mr.  Gallagher," Nora said with an impertinent
toss of her head that, if Brady had witnessed it, would have reminded
him again of her mother.  "Trying to fit everyone into tidy little
boxes."  She poured the last of the grain into the final trough.  "I'm
disappointed.  I would have expected a famous writer such as yourself
to have more imagination."

There was something different about her.  It was as if she'd let down
her guard and was giving him his first glimpse of the woman who'd been
brave enough to take on a ready-made family before she was even out of
her teens.

"Sometimes it helps to be able to pigeonhole people."

"Stereotype, you mean."  She went back down to the beginning of the row
and began attaching the inflations to the cows' swollen udders.  "Let
me guess, if you'd given the matter of my milking any thought, which I
doubt you have, you would have pictured me doing the work by hand,
while sitting on a three-legged wooden stool, wearing a dirndl."

"And a scooped-neck cotton peasant blouse to show off the tops of your
milky white breasts," he finished for her.  The fantasy of unlacing
that white blouse had tortured him during the more pastoral of his
erotic dreams concerning this woman.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"That's the one thing you couldn't do, sweetheart."  Starting at the
other end of the line, he began attaching the octopus-like hoses to the
teats of the feeding cows.  "You frustrate me, frighten me, turn me on,
but--"

"Surely you're not serious?  I frighten you?"

"You're right.  Frighten isn't the right word."

"I didn't think so."

"Actually, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick, you scare the living be jesus out of
me."

Surprised that he'd make such a startling admission in such an easy
tone, Nora glanced up, then stared at the sight of Quinn doing what to
her had become routine.  "What are you doing?"

"Helping out like Brady suggested."

"But you know what to do."

"I told you I knew a bit about farms."

"Well, knowing a bit about farms and knowing farm work are two very
different things."

Quinn shrugged.  "I worked on a few when I was a kid.  After my mom
died.  Mostly plowing, haying, milking.  I didn't much like it."

"Oh."  That wasn't the most encouraging news, Nora thought.  It
reminded her that Quinn was not the type of man to be happy living a
country life.  "If you don't like the work, you shouldn't have to do
it.  After all, you are a paying guest and--"

"Hey, having your guests do the work is the latest thing in the States.
Believe it or not, out West, guys actually pay big bucks to get their
butts beat up sitting on a horse all day playing cowboy."

"I saw that movie."  She thought it important that he realize that
Castlelough wasn't entirely the back of beyond.  "I thought it was very
sweet when the wee calf was born.  But to tell you the truth, I don't
think taking it back to the city was a very good idea."

"That story was a fantasy written for city slickers who don't want to
think about the fact that cows are nothing but Big Macs on the hoof.
After the movie finished shooting, that big brown-eyed bovine Billy
Crystal supposedly delivered undoubtedly ended up between two
sesame-seed buns."

She inclined her head, studied him to see if he was serious and
realized he was.  "Has anyone ever told you that you're a very jaded
man, Mr.  Gallagher?"

"All the time.  And for the record, they're wrong.  I'm merely a
realist in a world populated with people who want their lives fuzzed up
all pretty and soft-focused at the edges.

"Which is why," he continued, returning to his original point, "you
should consider making up a brochure touting the pleasures of good,
honest work, and how it lowers blood pressure, increases heart capacity
and boosts sex drive.  You'd make a bundle from rich Americans."

"I'll consider that," Nora murmured as she returned to work.  There was
no way she was going to touch that remark about boosting sex drive.
"You wouldn't want to be giving me an endorsement, would you?  For the
brochure."

"That depends.  Are you going to smack me if I spill any milk?"

Even knowing it was foolish of her, she grasped this latest clue and
held it close to her heart, wondering if he'd realized he'd just shared
with her something else of his painful childhood.

"I hadn't planned on it," she answered mildly, despite her stirring of
sympathy for the boy who'd obviously been mistreated.

"Well, then, I suppose I could be persuaded."

"Of course you won't be able to give a five-star review of my tasty
meals.  Since you missed the lamb," she added pointedly.

They'd each reached the center of the barn and were now standing side
by side.

Quinn cursed softly.  "It seems I've spent a lot of time since coming
here apologizing to you."

"You don't owe me any apologies, Quinn.  After all, you're certainly
free to decide where you want to spend your evenings."  And your
nights, she thought, but did not say.

"I spent the night in the village.  With Laura Gideon."

"I see."  She'd expected Quinn to hurt her.  She just hadn't realized
the pain would come so soon

"No, dammit."  He cupped her chin, holding her distressed gaze to his
when she would have turned away.  "You don't see.  I may have gone
there for sex.  But I didn't do anything but pass out on her couch."

"You were drinking again?"

"Yeah."  He shook his head in self-disgust.  "When I was a kid, I used
to try like hell to outrun my dad.  I never could, of course.  Looks
like I still can't."

"You're not the first man to have too much to drink from time to time.
That doesn't mean you're an alcoholic."

"I can count on one hand the number of times I've been drunk in my
life.  Two of them have been since I came here to Castlelough.  That's
got to mean something."

"It certainly doesn't say all that much for the relaxing properties of
farm life.  Perhaps I'd better rethink printing up that fancy
advertising brochure."

"I'm serious, Nora."

"That's your problem, Quinn.  You take life too seriously.  You expect
too much."

He laughed at that.  A harsh bark of a sound that held not an iota of
humor.  "Sweetheart, if there's one lesson I've learned from life, it's
not to expect a goddamn thing."

"If that were true, you wouldn't have to work so hard to keep yourself
from being hurt.  You still have hope in your heart, Quinn Gallagher.
Even if you won't admit it."

"Perhaps you ought to hang out a shingle--Nora Fitzpatrick, country
psychologist.  Dammit, weren't you listening?  I stood you up for
dinner last night because I'd gone to the inn planning to go to bed
with another woman.  And not just any woman, but a gorgeous, sexy
actress that men all over the world fantasize making love to.

"Laura and I always had a good time together.  I was tense.  Uptight. I
wanted to get you out of my mind."

"And did you?"

"Hell, no," he said wearily.

Nora expelled a breath she'd been unaware of holding.  "I suppose I
should say I'm sorry.  But I'm not."

He dragged both hands down his face, then dropped them to his side.
When he looked at her again--hard and deep--Nora saw the misery in his
eyes and wondered what kind of woman she'd become that she could
actually find such pain encouraging.

"I want you, dammit!"  He slammed his fist into his palm as the
machines hummed and the cows chewed contentedly.  "More than I could
have imagined.  I don't like the feeling.  And I sure as hell don't
like not being able to decide what to do about it."

"Oh, Quinn."  She sighed out his name, wishing there was something she
could do to brighten the $

murky shadows inside him.  If she honestly believed that sex would
help, she would have ripped off her clothes and given herself to him
right here and now.  But she'd come to understand that sex came easily
for this man.  Too easily, it seemed.  And although he'd never admit
it, might not even realize it himself, Quinn was hungry for somebody to
care about him.  To love him.

She lifted a hand to his shoulder and felt the muscle tense beneath her
touch.  "You keep making it sound as if I don't have any say in the
matter.  I may not be as experienced as the American women you're used
to," she said quietly.  "But I have been married and have given birth
to a child.  I'm not nearly as naive or helpless as you seem to believe
I am.  I do have a choice whether or not I go to bed with you.

"That's what you say."  He grabbed hold of her upper arms and kissed
her in a way designed to make her head spin.  Which it did.  When he
released her mouth, his expression was as grim as she'd ever seen it.
"The thing is, baby, I need to make sure I have a choice."

His face set in a rigid inscrutable mask, he backed away.  Physically
and emotionally.  Nora wanted to weep as she watched those hateful
walls going up again, stone by impenetrable stone.

"I've got some work to do," he said.  "Since you seem to have
everything under control here, I'd better get to it."

With that curt dismissal, Quinn turned and walked out of the milking
barn.  He did not look back.

Chapter Thirteen

Take Her in Your Arms

From the way he'd marched out of the milking shed,

Nora had suspected Quinn was probably on his way back to Castlelough.
To Laura Gideon, no doubt.  Which was why it came as such a surprise to
enter the house and find him in the kitchen, with Rory, Celia and
Fionna.

And he wasn't just in it.  He appeared to have taken it over!

"Quinn's cooking us supper," Celia, who was setting the table, revealed
before Nora could ask what he was doing working at the stove.

"He's making curry," Rory said, looking up from chopping onions.

"Indians eat it."  This from Celia.

"People who are from India," Rory said as he;;:

concentrated on making all the diced onion pieces the same size.  "Not
the ones from the American movies"

I know."  She'd eaten curry once at a restaurant in Dublin while living
at the convent.  She'd grown up on basic country fare, and had found it
the most exotic food she'd ever tasted.  "I also know I didn't have any
curry in the pantry."

"I bought it this afternoon in the village," Quinn said.  "Mrs. Monohan
keeps a well-stocked store."

"Yes, she does."  Nora's mind was racing.  "You bought it this
afternoon?"

He shrugged.  "I figured it was my fault you were stuck with leftovers
from last night.  The least I could do was help you use them up."  He
glanced at her.  "I came out to the milking barn to tell you, but we
got..  sidetracked talking about other things."

"Oh."  She'd never, in her entire life, had a man cook for her! Indeed,
she couldn't think of any woman she knew who had.

She took her apron from its hook.  "Will we be having rice?  Because I
can start--"

"No."  Quinn plucked the white cotton apron from her hand and hung it
back where it belonged.  "You're not going to do anything but sit down
and drink your wine."

"Wine?"

"He bought it in the village, too."  Fionna, who was seated at the
table watching the proceedings--lifted her glass.  "It's French.  And
very good."

And very expensive, Nora suspected.  This entire scene: a man standing
at her stove, looking as if he had every right to be there, her son
helping him cook, her grandmother actually drinking something other
than communion wine, was like something from one of Quinn's books.  It
was far more fictional than anything Nora had ever experienced in real
life.

She sank onto one of the chairs she'd painted during a gloomy time last
winter when she'd thought the bright yellow color might bring a little
sunshine into the dark winter days.  Quinn poured some wine into a
glass and held it out to her.

"Slainte," he said.  Then, for her ears alone, he murmured.  "To
apologies.  And possibilities."

"Slainte," she answered softly.  As she lifted the ruby red wine to her
lips, Nora thought she didn't need spirits; she was already high.

The next two hours passed in a blur.  As she sipped her wine--which not
surprisingly was excellent

Nora watched in amazement the ease with which Quinn fit into her
family, instructing her son on the importance of a man being able to
feed himself, sharing foolish knock-knock jokes with Celia,
complimenting Mary, who'd entered the kitchen a few minutes earlier, on
a new, paler, more natural lipstick shade, and discussing DNA, of all
things, with John, who had come in with Mary.

"I've been telling Quinn about Bernadette,"

Fionna revealed as they finished up a meal that was even better than
the one Nora had paid so many hard-earned pounds for in Dublin.  "He's
thinking of putting her into his new book."

"Really?"  Nora's eyes narrowed suspiciously.  Her grandmother took her
canonization campaign very seriously.  "I thought your next book was
going to be about a witch, Quinn."

"It is.  In fact, Kate and I are meeting tomorrow to discuss her
impression of my heroine.  She promised to take me to a circle of
stones nearby."

"I know it."  The ancient pre-Christian stone circle staggered the
boundary line between Joyce and

O'Sullivan land.  "But how does Bernadette fit into a story about a
witch?"

"Fionna has me intrigued.  Sister Bernadette Mary is an interesting
vital character.  If I move the story back a few years, put it at the
time of the revolution, fictionalize her enough to make her, perhaps,
my heroine's sister..."

"You're serious."

"Of course.  I'm always serious, Nora.  You should have realized that
by now."

His tone held a private meaning that had her looking down into her
wineglass.

"A movie based on Bernadette's life might just help the cause," Fionna
pointed out.  "Even if it's a fictionalized account.  And then, if it
turns out to be a hit at Cannes, perhaps even the Holy Father himself
will take notice."

Nora stared dumbstruck at her grandmother.  She was certain Fionna
hadn't even known about the famed European film festival before the
movie people's arrival in Castlelough.  Obviously her grandmother and
Quinn had been having quite the conversation while she'd been finishing
the milking.

"This sounds very different from your other books."

"Not really.  Bernadette and the heroine of The Lady of the Lake have a
great deal in common."  He leaned forward to top off her glass before
refilling Fionna's, then his own.

"One's a widowed mother.  The other is a nun, Nora said.  And nuns
could not be mothers.  Hadn't the inability to have children been one
of the main reasons she'd questioned her vocation even before her
mother had died?

"That's not such a difference.  As you can probably attest to," he said
mildly, revealing that someone had told him about her early convent
days.  "They're both brave women.  Willing to give their lives to

something they believe in.  And I like the duality of the two
sisters--one who's embraced a two-thousand-year-old religion and the
other who practices a less acceptable one harkening back to ancient
pagan gods."

Nora couldn't help noticing that by making the two characters in his
new book sisters, Quinn was once again writing about a family.  She
wondered if he realized that.

And speaking of families

"I liked the way you ended The Lady of the Lake.  Having Shannon
McGuire hide the baby beneath the tarp as she took the boat to
Innisfree."  Nora smiled at the uplifting memory of the widowed young
mother and her son headed out to the island, determined to save the
small green creature its mother had died protecting.  "After all that
sadness and evil, it made me feel hopeful."

"Shannon decided that all on her own," Quinn revealed, surprising Nora.
She thought he'd have felt the need to reign absolute over his
fictional worlds.  "I had an entirely different-and darker conclusion
in mind when I began writing the book.

"But once Shannon took off on her own, joining forces with the
creature, I purposely left the ending ambivalent.  Most people seem to
focus on the fact that the scientists won't give up."  It did not
surprise Quinn that Nora would choose the more optimistic--and
unlikely-possibility.

"If that's the case, most people underestimate Shannon McGuire."

He lifted his glass to her.  "You may have a point, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick.
She was, indeed, a formidable woman."

As he drank in the sight of her lovely earnest face, Quinn realized why
Nora had seemed strangely familiar that first night.  She was, of
course, the brave unrelentingly optimistic Shannon McGuire come to
life.  The irony of coming across the sea to meet the only
character--the only woman--who'd ever possessed the power to fascinate
him did not escape Quinn.

"It's going to be light for another hour," he said.  At this latitude
the late-spring sun lingered lovingly over the land.  "Didn't you say
something about an excursion to the coast?"

"Oh, what a grand idea!"  Fionna actually clapped her hands.  "The poor
man's been working far too hard since he came to Castlelough, Nora.  I
think he deserves a sunset walk at the edge of the tide.  Relaxing,
don't you think?"

That suggestion had Quinn nearly spitting out the drink of wine he'd
just taken.  Of all the words he might have used to describe his
turbulent feelings for Nora Fitzpatrick, relaxing would not have even
made the top fifty.

"There's still the dishes to do," Nora protested.

"Oh, we can do them," Fionna assured her.  "Show the man the seashore,
darling.  The fresh air will do you both a world of good."

Nora knew there was no point in arguing.  Not that she really wanted
to.  For the prospect of being alone with this man she just might be
falling in love with was far too appealing to turn down.

And that was how they found themselves strolling along the hard-packed
sand at the edge of the surf, drinking in the tangy scent of the sea.
Overhead, gulls wheeled, their cries echoing off the windswept cliffs
as the sun sank lower and lower in the cloud-scudded sky.  Sandpipers
skittered about in the foamy surf on long thin stilt legs while puffins
nested on rock formations green with vegetation.

The slanting light cast a trail of fire on the white-crested ocean
waves.  Quinn thought of his great-great-great-grandfather, Quinlan
Conroy Gallagher, of County Donegal, who had sailed on the infamous
"coffin ship" from Cork to America during the potato famine.

The sea on this warm spring day was calm, nearly glassy.  Quinn
imagined that in the winter the waves would beat against the rocks like
invading warriors.  A harsh contrast to the tidy green fields and
placid sapphire lakes of summer.

In fact, the entire country was one of contrasts.  One minute icy rain
would be falling from low-hanging pewter clouds, the next the sun would
shine from a cornflower blue sky, gilding the rolling landscape, and
literally take your breath away.

The land of his forefathers was a place of sad songs, merry wars, the
tragedy of the Troubles, the lilt of laughter mingling with the
melancholy of a fiddle, both twining through the murmur of a
blue-smoked pub.  A place where the entire town might turn out to help
one of their own cut peat for the winter, yet stubbornly harbor a
decades-old grudge about a neighbor's errant cow getting into the
corn.

Quinn had always thought of himself as a man who knew his own mind. Who
carefully, after much consideration, charted a course and stuck to it. 
He'd prided himself on his single-mindedness.  Until he'd arrived in
Castlelough.

"You must think I'm crazy," he muttered.

It was the first words he'd said to her since leaving the house.  Nora,
enjoying his company and the sun's dazzling farewell to the day, had
not felt the need to press for conversation.

"I have a grandmother who drives all over Ireland in a miracle-mobile,
harasses bishops and writes impassioned weekly letters to the pope, a
father who's survived an encounter with a banshee and lived to tell
everyone about it, a sister who looks as if she's an apprentice
vampire, a sister-in-law who dances in fairy rings and prays to pagan
gods, and a son whose best friend is a mythical creature who lives in
the lake."

Humor lit up her eyes, silvered her voice, as she went on, "And I
myself have lengthy conversations with my long-dead mother and Stone
Age ancestors.  How could you think I'd be calling anyone else
crazy?"

Quinn looked into the fathomless depths of those green eyes over
brimming with life and wondered how it was that she could make him
laugh so easily.

"Point taken."

She returned his faintly abashed grin with a warm open smile of her
own.  "It's the magic of course.

"And you'd be one to believe in magic."  Quinn never had, despite the
fact that he wrote books about otherworldly events.

"Aye.  While I may not burn candles and cast old

Celtic spells as Kate does, I've felt it myself too many times not to
know it exists.  Obviously you've been feeling it, too, Quinn, which
isn't surprising, since the blood of the ancient ones flows in your
veins."

Quinn damn well didn't want to ruin a perfectly good sunset by
discussing his Gallagher blood.

"I've always been irritated by women who give men mixed signals," he
said, in an effort to change the subject.  "But it occurs to me that's
exactly what I've been doing to you."  This was not an appealing
realization.

"It's the magic," she said again.  "It's obvious it has you feeling
uneasy.  And a wee bit testy."

"More than a wee bit."  Her creamy complexion was framed by a windblown
tangle of flame silk.  Feeling an overpowering urge to touch, Quinn
brushed away some strands that were blowing across her eyes.  "I've
been a bastard."

"Aye," Nora agreed.

He laughed again at her unfailing honesty and felt a release of
tension.  "You could argue with me."

She lifted a teasing brow.  "And why would I be arguing with the truth,
Mr.  Gallagher?"

Quinn narrowed his eyes at the exaggerated lilt in her tone.

"Saints preserve us," he drawled on a mock brogue laced with amusement.
"And would you actually be flirting with me, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick?"

"I believe I just might be, Mr.  Gallagher."

Tenderness.  As the water carved new curves into ancient cliffs, Quinn
felt it and fought against it.  "I'm not a man for pretty words and
promises, Nora."

"You're underestimating yourself."  She lifted a hand to his cheek and
felt the ridge of the white scar beneath her fingertips.  "It would
seem to me that a famous writer such as yourself would have more than
enough words at his disposal."

His fingers curled around her wrist as if to pull her hand away.  But
he didn't.  Not yet.  "Are you saying you want me to lie?"

"No."  Nora thought it sad that a man who was the epitome of
self-confidence would seem so unsure of himself when it came to being
loved.  Although it cost her, she didn't press.  "Pretty words can be
lovely, Quinn.  I know of no woman who doesn't enjoy hearing them." 
She saw the Aha!  look flash in his eyes.  "But I wouldn't be needing
them."

"That's what you say now.  But you're fooling yourself."  His fingers
tightened in a way Nora knew would leave bruises.  "I won't be kind."

Although she'd rather attempt to face down a banshee on a moonless
night on the Burren, Nora forced herself to meet Quinn's challenging
gaze straight on.  "I don't believe that."  She was pleased when her
voice revealed none of the anxiety bubbling up inside her.

His answering curse was rich and ripe.  "Once won't be enough."

Tangled nerves had her laughing at that.  "Sure, and I was hoping not,"
she said, her exaggerated brogue earning another rare genuine smile.
Like a fledgling bird making its first attempt at flight, hope took
stuttering wing in her chest.

She'd never been a woman to make the first move.  With Devlin, their
kisses had been a spontaneous shared exploration of youthful emotions.
Conor had literally swept her into his arms less than ten minutes after
he'd walked into his sister's horse barn and found her sitting on a
bale of hay, crying her eyes out over her poor dead mam.

There'd been other kisses from other men, not many, but enough for her
to understand that this ache to taste was as unique as Quinn Gallagher
himself.

Linking her fingers together at the back of his neck, Nora went up on
her toes and touched her mouth to his.

Magic.  Quinn felt it in the sizzle of heat as Nora's lips touched his,
tasted it in the hot wine flavor of the kiss, heard it in the small
sound--a murmur or a moan, he couldn't quite tell over the thunder of
the blood pounding in his head--that vibrated beneath his mouth as he
took the kiss deeper.  Darker.

Passion, restrained for too long, rose like the wind, tearing from him
into her.  Desire, rich and ripe and hot, flowed from her lips directly
into his bloodstream.  She strained against him, saying his name in a
way that was part plea, part prayer as his mouth roamed her uplifted
face, gathering in the taste of salt mist, searing her skin, cooling
it, then setting it aflame again.

She was burning.  Engulfed in emotions more turbulent than she'd ever
experienced before, Nora was vaguely aware of the echo of the incoming
tide, the cry of the gulls, the moan of the wind.  And then, all those
faded into the distance as she heard the lovely music of Quinn calling
her sweetheart in a different way than all those other times he'd
practically flung the word at her like a challenge.

She clung to him, as if he were an anchor, a life line in a sea of
titanic waves.  His hands were beneath her sweater, caressing her in a
wicked practiced way that left her shuddering.

"I want to make you crazy."  His lips skimmed up her throat; he touched
the tip of his tongue against the fragrant hollow where her pulse
hammered.

"You are."

"It's not enough."  He nipped at her lips in painful yet pleasurable
bites that had her moving restlessly beneath his hands.  "I want to
make you as crazy as you've made me.  Being with you is almost all I've
been thinking about."  He kissed her eyelids, which fluttered
obediently closed.  "Dreaming about."

"I know."  Her own hands had sneaked beneath his sweater, allowing her
to revel in the feel of the smooth skin and taut muscles of his back.
How could such a strong hard man have flesh as smooth as an infant's
bottom?  Nora wanted to feel him everywhere.  Heaven help her, she
wanted to taste him everywhere.  "I know the dreaming."

"Thank God."  His rich laugh held none of the acid sarcasm or anger she
was used to hearing.  He took his hands from her hot flesh, leaving her
feeling bereft as he tugged the sweater back into place.

"Another minute of that, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick, and I would have been
dragging you down to the sand and taking you right here and now."

"Another minute of that, Mr.  Gallagher," Nora retorted on a ragged
breath, "and I would have helped you."

Chuckling again in a very unQuinn-like way, he framed her face with his
palms, bent his head and touched his lips to her ravaged ones in a kiss
so sweet it nearly made her weep.

"I want to take you to dinner."

She told herself that it was because her head was still spinning that
she'd misunderstood.  "After that fine meal you made us?"

"No."  Another kiss.  longer, sweeter.  "Tomorrow night.  I want to
drive into Galway for dinner in a fine restaurant, with candlelight and
wine and a rose in a crystal vase in the center of the table, and
perhaps, if we're lucky, even a romantic violinist to serenade you."
"You want to take me out on a date?"

"For starters."  He laughed at the enthusiasm for the idea that was
emblazoned all over her face.  Her lovely lovely face.  "Then, I
figured, we could take things from there."

Nora knew he'd chosen Galway to get her away from home, where everyone
would talk about them.  of course, she considered, spending an evening,
and perhaps even a night, away with the man more than one Castlelough
resident was now referring to as "her American," would be guaranteed to
set tongues wagging.  In Castlelough, as in most villages, gossip was
the coin of the realm.  And the Americans were providing a wealth of
stories.

"I'd love that."  It was not in Nora's nature to play coy.  "But
Fionna's leaving for Derry in the morning, and even if I could talk Da
into staying at home with the children..."

"Mary and John are old enough to baby-sit.  And Kate's just a phone
call away, on the next farm."

"You're right of course."

Her mind was whirling its way through her closet, wondering if she
possessed anything remotely suitable for such a romantic evening, when
she heard the sound of her name being carried on the wind.  She turned
and experienced a jolt of surprise mixed with pleasure.

"Oh!  It's Devlin!"

"Devlin?"  Quinn didn't like the rich warmth in her tone.

"A boy I knew from school.  His mother is Mrs.  Monohan, who sold you
the wine and curry."

The man walking toward them on a long beach-eating stride was built
like an oak tree.  Broad and firm and solid.  When Nora waved at him,
he began running, and when he reached her, swept her up with a bold
confidence that caused something hot and lethal to slice through
Quinn.

"Jaysus, if you don't get more beautiful every time I see you, wench,"
Devlin Monohan said.  As Quinn was forced to watch, the Irishman kissed
her full on the mouth.  Nora, Quinn noticed with building fury, kissed
him right back.  "It's a wonder all the men in Castlelough aren't
crippled from walking into stone walls whenever you go by."

"And you're more full of blarney every time I see you," Nora said
laughingly.  "Next time you'll have to give me warning.  So I can dig
out my Wellies to wade through your foolish compliments."  She banged a
palm against his shoulder.  "Now put me down so I can be properly
introducing you."

"That's always been your trouble, Nora, me love," he said, nevertheless
doing as instructed.

"You've always been too proper for your own good."  His expression was
open and friendly as he turned to Quinn, acknowledging him for the
first time.  "Good evening to you.  I'm Devlin Monohan, the man this
one drove to distraction once upon a time ago."

The fact that he'd not imagined the familiarity between the two did
nothing to lighten Quinn's mood.  "Quinn Gallagher."  He reluctantly
shook the outstretched hand.  It reminded him of a bear's paw.

"Of course you are.  I'd recognize you even if Fionna hadn't told me
that Nora was down here with you.  I enjoy your stories, Mr. Gallagher.
And admire the affection you portray for animals.  The tale about the
ghost stallion was particularly well done."

It was difficult for Quinn to hate someone who'd just paid his work a
compliment.  But the memory of this man's mouth on Nora's made it
easier.  "Thank you."

"Devlin's a veterinarian," Nora said.  "He's just gotten a position at
the National Stud."  She beamed up at him.  "I'm so proud of you!"

"That's very impressive," Quinn said grudgingly.  He knew that the
Irish stud farm was responsible for the blood stock of the world's
greatest Thoroughbreds.

"It's an honor," Devlin said easily enough.  "And one I hope I can live
up to."

"Of course you will," Nora said with a fervent loyalty that had Quinn
grinding his teeth.  "You've always had the magic touch when it comes
to horses, Devlin."

"And you've always been prejudiced, love," he countered with a deep
laugh.  "I suppose Mam told you my other news?"

"That you're getting married?  She did, and I think it's wonderful."

"I'm rather fond of the idea myself," Devlin Monohan's rapt expression
revealed that "fond" was something of an understatement.  "And that's
why

I've interrupted yours and Mr.  Gallagher's sunset stroll.  To invite
you to a party to meet my new bride-to-be."

"Oh, that sounds wonderful!  When?"

"Since I'm due at my new position the day after next, Mam was thinking
tomorrow night."

Nora's face fell.  "Oh.  I'm sorry, Devlin, but I'm afraid I have
plans--"

"Nothing that can't be changed," Quinn broke in.  "We can go to Galway
some other night.  You should celebrate with your friend."

She was, Quinn noted, clearly torn as she looked back and forth between
himself and the other man.

"I don't want to be influencing you either way, Nora," Devlin said.  He
looked over at Quinn, his friendly gaze now measuring.  "And of course
you'd be invited, as well, Mr.  Gallagher."

"I wouldn't want to intrude..."

"Oh, it wouldn't be intruding.  Besides, wouldn't it give my mother
boasting rights throughout the entire county for the next decade having
one of the Americans in her house for a social event?"

Quinn knew that Nora would not renege on her agreement to go to Galway
with him.  He also knew that he didn't want to risk a possible pall
over the evening from any guilt she might be feeling from missing the
engagement party of an obviously very close friend.

"It sounds like fun," he said, not quite truthfully.  Although from his
brief meeting with the gregarious

Mrs.  Monohan in the mercantile, he was sure she'd be an excellent
hostess, he'd much rather be willing, dining and making mad passionate
love to Nora in Galway.  "Please tell your mother I appreciate the
invitation."

From the expression on Nora's face as she looked up at him, Quinn
realized he'd done the right thing.

"Thank you," she murmured after they'd said their goodbyes and were
watching Devlin walk back toward the stone steps carved into the cliff.
"That was a very generous thing to do."

Quinn shrugged.  "I could tell you wanted to be with him and--"

"No.  I wanted to be with you.  But Devlin's important to me, as
well."

"So it appears."  Quinn had to ask.  "I suppose he was your first
lover?"  Apparently Mary had gotten the wedding-night story wrong.

"No," Nora said mildly, ignoring his all-too-familiar gritty tone.  "My
husband was my first lover.  Devlin was my first love."  She linked her
fingers with his and smiled at him in a way that made Quinn feel like
an ass.  "And you've no reason to concern yourself about him.  Even if
he hadn't gotten himself engaged to another woman, what Devlin and I
shared was over a very long time ago."

"But you're still friends."

"Aye.  Perhaps as you and Laura Gideon are."

Quinn had no response for that.  Taking pity on him, Nora stopped
walking, went up on her toes again and gave him a kiss that, brief as
it was, still packed one helluva punch.

"You don't have to worry about me having romantic feelings for Devlin,
Quinn."

That may be, Quinn told himself as they walked back up the steep
breath-stealing steps.  But the romantic feelings he was harboring for
this woman, whose slender hand fit so perfectly in his, was definitely
something to worry about.

Chapter Fourteen

Something to Relieve In

Kate O'Sullivan had spent a restless night.  She'd tossed and turned,
then suffered an anxiety attack shortly before dawn that had her heart
pounding so hard she'd feared she was having a heart attack.  She'd
been left feeling as fragile as glass.

It wasn't just because she and Cadel had had another fight.  After all,
hadn't she learned to expect him to be out of sorts when he spent the
entire day drinking whiskey in the pub?  The pitiful truth was, that
drunk or not, Cadel O'Sullivan was an ill-tempered bully.  And by
agreeing to marry him when she'd discovered she was carrying Andrew
Sinclair's child, she'd made a deal with the devil.

Nora was, of course, right about her needing to do something about her
marriage, Kate thought as she waved Jamie off on the bus to school. 
But fortunately, with her husband having stormed off to stay with his
cousin in Dungarven, such decisions could be put off a bit longer.

"Quinn's coming today," she told her daughter, Brigid, as she washed
the breakfast dishes.  "We're going to go to the stones."

"Stones!"  the red-haired toddler shouted gleefully while banging a
spoon against a pot lid.  "Brigid dance with fairies!"

"Aye."  Despite her continuing unease, Kate smiled and thought how
wonderful to be of an age when everything was an adventure.  Just then
there was a knock on the kitchen door.  As she went to answer it, she
said' "And won't the fairies smile when they see you've come
visiting?"

"Fairies will smile.  And dance!"  Brigid abandoned the pot and spoon
and began spinning around the kitchen, looking like a whirling
flame-topped daffodil in her bright yellow dress and leggings.

Quinn had no sooner entered the kitchen when he was attacked by a
whirling sunshine-bright dervish.  "Dance!"  the toddler shouted as she
spun up to him and grabbed hold of his legs.

"Far be it from me to refuse a beautiful girl."  He scooped Brigid up
in his arms; breathed in the scents of milk and baby powder, and began
waltzing around the kitchen.

"I thought I might drop her off at Nora's, but we're running late,"
Kate apologized.

"Didn't you hear, Mrs.  O'Sullivan?"  He dipped the little girl and
made her giggle.  "When God made time, he made plenty of it."

Kate hung up the dish towel, then cocked her head, studying him.  He'd
certainly changed since that first morning she'd met him at the Joyce
farm.  It could be her imagination, but she'd swear the harsh lines on
his face had softened.  And his dark eyes had lost their flinty
hardness.  She couldn't imagine the man she'd met that morning waltzing
around the kitchen with a two-year-old.

"Still, I know you're a busy man."

"The day I'm too busy to dance with a beautiful redhead is the day I
need to reexamine my priorities."

"Dance with fairies!"  Brigid announced loudly.

"I told her we were going to the circle of stones," Kate explained as
she took a small white Aran Islands sweater down from the hook beside
the door.  "It's one of her favorite places.  If you don't mind her
coming with us, that is."

"I'd like that," he said, meaning it.

He'd never been all that comfortable around babies and little children,
but Brigid O'Sullivan was so outgoing it was impossible not to fall
under her cheerful spell.  Quinn wondered if Jamie had once been this
gregarious.  Then wondered how long it would take for Brigid's spirit
to be darkened by her ill-tempered father, how long before she'd lose
the ability to trust.

And speaking of Cadel O'Sullivan... As Kate retrieved her daughter and
managed to get the little girl to hold still long enough to tug her
sweater on, Quinn couldn't miss the purplish mark on her cheek. Visions
flooded into his head: his battered mother's ugly bruises, her
trembling hands, the tears flowing from her sunken eyes.  He could hear
the rough curses, the raised voices, the screams.  Could smell the
sickening stench of blood.

Fury clawed at his gut with razor-sharp claws; his vision went crimson
with rage.  His hands curled into painfully tight fists at his sides,
the instinctively violent reaction reminding Quinn that, despite all
the fancy trappings of wealth, deep down inside, where it counted' he
was still his father's son.

He had no doubt that if he'd known Kate when Cadel O'Sullivan had first
confronted him in The Rose, things would have ended differently.
Sickened by the evidence of the man's brutish behavior on Kate's face,
equally sickened by his own knee-jerk impulse for violence, Quinn
jammed his fists into his pockets and tried to decide the best way to
broach the subject.

Apparently oblivious to his internal battles, Kate finished buttoning
the sweater and stood up.  "Well, then, if you're ready?"

"I've been ready since you first mentioned the stones," he said,
deciding there'd be time to bring up her husband's abuse later.  When
his head was cooler and he could more carefully censor his words.

Not for the first time since arriving in Castlelough, Quinn wondered
what it was about this place that made him so quick to involve himself
in people's lives.  How was it that everything got so personal so fast?
if he didn't know better, he might think there was something in the
water.  Or, he mused, perhaps Kate really was a witch and had cast a
spell over him.

He followed her over the hilly countryside, where cows grazed in
pastures fenced by stones, to an intoxicating breezy trail overlooking
the sea.  In the pearly light the Atlantic glistened like a precious
jewel, the string of islands looking like green humpbacked sea
monsters.  The sight soothed his senses, and the bracing scent of salt
air cleared his mind, temporarily banishing old ghosts.

"It's not far."  Kate had been holding Brigid's hand, but picked her up
when the trail came dangerously close to the edge of the savage cliff.
"It's on the border between a field I share with the Joyces."

That was something Quinn had noticed, that not all a farmer's fields
were adjacent to one another.

"Oh, it's a tricky thing," Kate explained when he asked her about it.
"The land is handed down to successive generations over the years and
gets all broken up.  Then, a farmer who owns a field next to mine might
not want to sell because it's better land than the field next to his
own house.  And I might feel the same way about a field next to one of
my neighbors.  So we all make do, and I can't see it changing anytime
soon."

That certainly wasn't a surprise.  From what Quinn had seen thus far,
change came slowly to the west of Ireland.  Which was, he thought, a
great part of its charm.

The faint trail was full of wiggles and twists, cutting across
headlands, heather-tinted moors and cliffs indented with hidden coves.
When they came around one blind turn, Quinn stopped in his tracks.

"Wow."  Although he'd seen pictures of Celtic stone circles, he wasn't
prepared for the actual sight.  It was staggering.  Suffused in the
luminous misty sea light were the sixteen man-size gallans--standing
stones--surrounding a huge recumbent stone in which lines and swirls
had been chiseled.  They were located in a small grove of ancient oak
trees that had somehow managed to escape the ax back when Richard II
plundered Irish woodlands for timbers to build the roof of London's
Westminster Hall.

"The symbols are ogham," Kate explained, running her fingers over the
etchings.

"A bardic alphabet," he said, remembering from his research.

"The letters are symbolic, with each letter standing for a variety of
ideas relating to Celtic philosophy."

"Like a secret code, of sorts, to keep the common folk from reading the
writings."

"Aye."  She sighed at that less than democratic idea.  "There are
legends of entire libraries written in ogham, where all the ancient
stories were preserved.  Although the old Greek and Roman chronicles
suggest they were mostly used for casting spells."

Since the stones were a good distance from the cliff, she put her
daughter back down on the ground.  Quinn smiled as he watched the
toddler begin to twirl like a laughing dervish.

"She feels the magic," he suggested.  Quietly, because he was feeling
it again himself.

"I've thought that, as well," Kate said.  "She was just a babe, less
than six weeks when I brought her here the first time.  She was plagued
with colic, a poor wee unhappy thing she was, squalling her head off
all the way along the cliff.  Until I took her into the circle.

"Then she immediately hushed and I watched her looking around, and
although I know there's many who'd suggest it was only gas, I watched
her smile.  And listen.  And I knew she was hearing the voices of those
who'd come before."

"I probably wouldn't have believed that a month ago," Quinn said.

"And now?"

He'd never seen a woman more in her element than Kate appeared at this
moment, watching her daughter dance with fairies.  "And now I guess
you'd have to call me an agnostic."

She laughed at that.  "Ah, isn't the magic getting to you now, Quinn
Gallagher."  Her voice sounded like wind chimes in a brisk morning sea
breeze.  "Another few weeks and we'll be making a true believer of
you."

Quinn smiled back, feeling none of the tension with this lovely
intelligent woman that he experienced with her sister-in-law.  "It
almost seems as if she's hearing some type of music," he said, watching
the toddler spin from rock to rock.

"I suppose that isn't so surprising, since my grandmother on my
mother's side was an Early.

Which means the blood of Biddy Early flows through her young veins."

"I think I hear a story coming."

"We do like our stories," Kate agreed cheerfully.  "Even those of us
who aren't seanachies, like Brady.  Biddy Early was from County Clare.
It's from her that Brigid gets her bright copper hair.

"Biddy was a famous healer with the gift of Sight, who outlived three
husbands and invited a great deal of local gossip upon herself by
marrying a fourth time--to a fine, much younger handsome man--when she
was in her eighties.  When she died, the parish priest, who, needless
to say, did not look with favor upon her practice of white magic, took
her fortune-telling bottle from her cottage and cast it into the tarn
of Kilbarron, where it remains to this day."

"So now you carry on the family tradition."

"In a way.  When people come to me with problems, it's difficult to
turn them away.  I was baptized into the Church and confirmed, as well,
yet I can't help believing, despite what Father O'Malley preaches, that
if I wasn't meant to be following the Old Way, I wouldn't have been
given the gifts of the ancient ones."

"Makes sense to me.  Quinn had never been a fan of any organized
religion.  "So if it's not too personal a question, may I ask if you
inherited Biddy Early's gift of Sight?"

He was almost tempted to also ask if she could see what lay ahead for
him and Nora.  But not wanting to get into a discussion about a
relationship he still hadn't been able to define, he refrained.

"Aye.  A bit of it, at any rate.  But I never see anything I might need
to know myself unfortunately.  Mostly it's just shadows."  Like the
ones that had lingered uncomfortably after last night's dream, she
thought, experiencing another fleeting twinge of something she could
not quite explain.

Knowing there was no point in forcing a vision, Kate turned her
thoughts back to Quinn's question.  "There are rare occasions when a
vision comes more clearly.  I saw my brother Conor's accident, for
example, but I had no way of telling when it would happen or where.  I
tried to warn him, but he was a stubborn man, over brimming with
self-confidence, and would be hearing none of it."

"How did Nora respond?"

"Oh, I didn't tell her.  I've never believed it's my place to tell
people bad news that can't be avoided.

It hurt our friendship for a time, but Nora's a good-hearted person and
has never been one to hold a grudge."

When Brigid came running across the circle, Kate scooped her up, braced
her against her hip and gave Quinn a serious look.  "Nora's not had an
easy time of it.  And she's in for more pain."

"If you're suggesting I'm going to hurt her..."

"Oh, you will, indeed.  But isn't that the way with men and women?"
Shadows moved across her expressive blue eyes like clouds across the
sun.  "But something else is going to happen to someone she loves.  I
haven't been able to see who.  Or when.

"The worry has been deviling my sleep, and when I'm awake, it hovers on
the edge of my thoughts like the lingering fragments of a dream I can't
quite recall.  I've even tried coming up here every day, but it hasn't
helped.

"But I do know that Nora will be needing you to stand by her, Quinn. To
offer her strength in a trying time."

"I'll do my best."  It was time to bring up Kate's own troubles, he
thought as they turned away from the stones and began walking back down
the twisting path.  "Speaking of trying times, perhaps I should have a
little talk with your husband."

"Cadel?"  Her head spun toward him.  "What would you be wanting to talk
with Cadel about?"

"How about suggesting that if he lays a hand on you again, as your new
friend, I'll have no choice but to beat the living daylights out of
him?"

Her face went as pale as glass.  "I don't know what you're talking
about."

"You're a delightful woman, Kate Fitzpatrick O'Sullivan, but you're a
lousy liar."

Because he knew from personal experience that this could well be an
issue of life and death, Quinn decided to forget about concealing his
harsh childhood and go for broke.

"My father used to beat my mother.  I tried to help, but all that ever
happened was he'd beat me, too.  Then be even harder on her."

Kate looked away, as if unable to bear the pain she could no doubt read
in his eyes.  "I'm sorry."

"So was I. He got sent to prison for killing a man in a drunken brawl.
The jury convicted him of manslaughter.  I wasn't old enough to
understand the logistics, but I did understand that he wouldn't be
coming back for a long time.  And when the sheriff called to tell my
mother that my father had been fatally stabbed in a prison riot, I was
probably the happiest kid in the entire state of Nevada."

"That's so sad," she murmured.  "That a boy would be celebrating his
father's death.  And your mother?  How did she feel?"

"I have no idea.  I never understood what made her stay with him in the
first place.  And I sure as hell never understood why she kept bringing
home the same sort of violent men."  Quinn stared out over the
glistening blue-green water that looked so calm on the surface.  But he
knew, better than most, how deceiving appearances could be.  "One of
them killed her when I was nine.

"And the little boy who witnessed his mother's death grew up to write
The Night of the Banshee."

He turned back toward her.  "You're a perceptive woman, Kate
O'Sullivan.  And you deserve better."  Although she was not yet old
enough to understand his words, Brigid was looking up at him, her blue
eyes suddenly as serious as her mother's.  As if she was sensing the
mood swirling between the two adults.  Quinn skimmed a hand over the
silky copper curls.  "Your daughter deserves better.  And so does
Jamie."

"I know."  Kate absently touched her fingers to her bruised cheek.
"Cadel's away right now, gone to stay with his cousin in Dungarven.
When he comes back, I'll be telling him there's no place in our lives,
or my home, for him any longer."

Quinn wished it was that easy.  But he suspected O'Sullivan would not
take such news without putting up a fight.

"If you need any help..."

"I'll ring up Sergeant O'Neill."

"I'm closer."

Although there was nothing humorous about the topic, Kate laughed. "For
a man who likes to keep to himself, you've certainly gotten yourself
involved in a great many entanglements since arriving in Castlelough,
Mr.  Gallagher."

Not bothering to ask how she knew his nature, Quinn laughed, too.
"You're telling me.  If only I'd met you sooner, perhaps you could have
read my palm, or thrown my stones, or whatever you druidic witches do
to tell the future, and warned me of all the pitfalls I was going to
encounter."

"Warnings are one thing.  Behavior quite another entirely.  I have the
feeling you've seen most of those pitfalls yourself.  And walked
straight into them, anyway."

"With my eyes wide-open," he agreed, silently vowing to have a little
heart-to-heart talk with Cadel O'Sullivan when he returned from sulking
at his cousin's.

"I know you and Nora are close," he said, "but I'd like to ask a
favor."

"Don't worry.  I'll not be telling her about your childhood, Quinn.
That's a story for you to share with her.  If you choose."

If you choose.  The words sounded so simple.  But once again Quinn was
forced to wonder if he'd had a choice about anything concerning Nora
since his arrival in Ireland.

They were back in Kate's kitchen, sipping their way through a pot of
tea while Brigid napped, when John came rushing in the door.

"Aunt Kate!"  He was obviously winded, giving the impression he'd run
across the fields from the Joyce farm.  "You have to come."  He bent
over, put his hands on his knees and drew in a deep draught of ragged
breath.  "Nora needs your car."

"What's wrong?"  Quinn was out of his chair in a shot.  "Is it Nora?"
His hands curled around the boy's upper arms, pulling him upright. "Has
something happened to her?"  Myriad pictures of farm accidents he'd
witnessed while growing up, none of them pleasant, most grisly, swam to
the forefront of his mind.

"No."  John Joyce's eyes were wide, his face pale with red splotches
riding in his cheeks.

"It's Fionna," Kate said quietly.

* "Aye."  John seemed unsurprised by his aunt's knowledge.  "Nora got a
call from the hospital."  He paused to take another deep breath,
forcing Quinn to rein in his impatience.  "There was a bombing at a
mall where Gran was shopping in Derry.  She's been injured and taken to
hospital.  Since Nora wanted to keep the phone line open, in case the
Garda might call, she sent me to borrow your car.

"Da's in the village with ours, so Nora needs yours to go fetch him.
Then she's driving to Galway to catch a flight to the North."

"That's not necessary."  It was Quinn's turn to shoot a look Kate's
way.  "Call Sergeant O'Neill and ask him to pick Brady up at The Rose
and bring him home.  I'll drive Nora and him to Galway."

"Fine," Kate said.  Although she was pale, her voice and her hand, as
she reached for the telephone, were steady.  "Shall I be calling the
airline to see about flights?"

"That's not necessary, either.  I'll arrange a charter to be waiting
for us."

"Perhaps I can reach your assistant and have her ring Galway airfield
for you."

Thinking she had one of the coolest heads in a crisis he'd ever
witnessed, Quinn let go of John, then took hold of Kate's shoulders and
gave her a quick kiss that held not a hint of lust.  Only heartfelt
gratitude.

"Her name's Brenda Michaels.  She should be at Flannery House.  She's
got all my credit-card numbers, so she shouldn't have any problems.
Tell her there'll be at least three people, maybe more," he said,
remembering that Nora had an older brother, Michael, who lived on a
nearby farm.

"I want the largest, most comfortable plane available and I don't care
if it ends up being an Aer Lingus jet.  Tell Brenda I'll have the cell
phone in the car.  She's to phone me with any news she can find out."
He took a pen and business card from his pocket and scribbled down the
cellular number and handed it to Kate.

"Consider it done," Kate said.  "And please tell Nora that I'll spend
the night at the house to tend to the children."

"You're a pearl among women, Kate Fitzpatrick O'Sullivan.  It's too bad
your husband's too damn dense to know what a treasure he got when he
married you."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Kate smiled.  "You do have a way
of knowing what to say, Quinn Gallagher.  No wonder Nora's fallen head
over Wellies over you."

So Nora had talked with her sister-in-law about him.  Although that
came as no surprise, Quinn was more than a little relieved that at
least some of the discussion appeared to have been positive.

Then, putting aside his own problems concerning his luscious landlady,
he put a reassuring arm around Nora's youngest brother's shoulder.
"Come on, John," he said with a robust tone meant to bestow confidence.
"Let's go take care of your sister."

Quinn found Nora in the kitchen with Mary.  "There's lamb stew for
tonight," she was saying.  "And in the morning, make certain Rory and
Celia eat something before going off to school.  There's porridge--"

"Celia always complains I make it too lumpy."

"Perhaps it's time for Celia to learn that you can't always avoid lumps
in life," Nora snapped uncharacteristically.

"Well spoken," Quinn murmured.  "But perhaps Celia can learn that
little life lesson some other time.  Kate's on her way over.  She's
spending the night, so she can take care of feeding the troops."

Nora had spun toward the door when he'd first spoken.  Despite her
remarkably steady voice as she'd instructed Mary on the domestic
chores, her eyes were filled with panic.

"Oh, Quinn."  Acting on impulse, as he'd discovered she so often did,
she rushed across the room and practically hurled herself into his
arms.  "You were at Kate's," she remembered.  "So you know."

"Yes."  A tide of warm emotions flowed through him, as deep as the
Irish sea.  "Brady's on his way home, and as soon as he arrives, I'm
taking you to Galway.  Then on to Derry."  He stroked the wild waves of
her hair in a gesture meant to calm rather than arouse, then pressed a
light kiss to her brow.  "Why don't you go toss a few things into an
overnight bag?"

She closed her eyes and held on tight for another long moment,
accepting the strength he was offering.  "Thank you."

Quinn watched her leave the room, then turned to Mary and John. "You're
both old enough to be consulted about this," he said, knowing Nora
might resent his taking over her duty as head of the household, but
feeling that her brother and sister should have the opportunity to make
their own decisions.

"Do you want to come with us?"

"I'd only be in the doctors' way," John replied.  "I think it's best I
stay here and help with the younger children."

"And I couldn't bear to see Gran hurt," Mary said with a sniffle.  "I'd
just start weeping and make things worse for Nora."

True enough, Quinn thought.  "I promise to keep you updated."

you, Mr.  Gallagher," John said with his usual serious manner.  "We'd
appreciate that."

Kate was as good as her word, making the arrangements and showing up at
the farm in record time.  Since Nora had not yet returned downstairs,
Quinn went to see if she needed help.

She was standing in the center of the small room he'd belatedly
realized she'd been forced to move into in order to make room for
him.

"I can't think."  She turned toward him and dragged a trembling hand
through her hair.  She was pale as a wraith, and her green eyes,
circling the room like frightened birds seeking escape, were bright
with moisture.  "Heaven help me, I can't think of what to do.  What to
pack."

Quinn felt a powerful need to comfort her and was both surprised at how
right it felt and irritated that he was too inexperienced with such
feelings to know how to act on it.

Feeling as if he were crossing a tightrope blindfolded while juggling
flaming torches, he began massaging her shoulders.  "She'll be all
right."

"I didn't want her to go."  Her mind was spinning in circles, chased by
frantic emotions.  "I was so worried, but I kept telling myself she's
an adult, after all.  That I don't have any right putting curfews and
restrictions on her the way I do the children."

"She wouldn't have listened if you'd tried."

"I know."  Nora leaned her forehead against his shoulder and sighed.
"I'm beginning to hate this bloody Bernadette campaign."

"Everyone needs a mission.  Your grandmother could probably have a lot
worse ones than getting a brave woman declared a saint."

"Why can't she just stay home and bake soda bread and say her rosary
like other grandmothers?"

Nora's heart had been pounding in fear ever since she'd gotten the
horrible telephone call from the Derry authorities.  Now it crossed her
mind that Quinn's shoulder was broad enough to bear heavy burdens.  He
was a man of many strengths, a man who'd stand by a woman.  And though
she suspected he'd argue the point, a good and loyal man.

For a woman who'd become accustomed to handling all sorts of problems
by herself and felt pride in her ability to take care of her family,
Nora might well have been annoyed by his take-charge attitude.  But
instead, she was discovering how lovely it was to have someone ease the
burden for once.

"Fionna's one of a kind," he murmured against her temple.  "Like her
eldest granddaughter."

His warm tone caused a little trip-hammer of emotion in her heart. Nora
lifted her head and gazed up at him.  "I'm going to say something. And
please, I don't want you to argue."

"I wouldn't think of it."  Not while she felt as fragile as a
hummingbird in his arms.

"You're so good for me."  When he opened his mouth to respond, she
pressed her fingers against his lips.  "You said you wouldn't argue."
She blinked, forcing back threatening tears.  "It's true, Quinn,
whether you're ready to believe it or not.  And at this moment I don't
know what I'd do if you weren't here with me."

She might feel like a delicate hummingbird, but Quinn knew Nora had the
heart of an eagle.  She could have weathered this, no matter what the
outcome, as she'd managed all the other tragedies in her life.  The
idea that she valued his presence beside her, that he could bring her
strength, made him feel more powerful than he'd ever felt before in his
life.  As if he could leap tall buildings in a single bound.

It was also terrifying.

"I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."  It was perhaps the
most truthful statement Quinn had ever uttered.  Somehow, when he'd let
down his guard, when he hadn't been looking, the widow Fitzpatrick had
become important to him.  Everything about her had become important.
Which was something else he was going to have to think about later.

For now, because he was, after all, only human, he dipped his head and
touched his mouth to hers.

It was a shimmering whisper of a kiss, soft and tender and as sweet as
sunshine through a rainbow.  His mouth brushed hers, retreated, then
brushed again, like a butterfly sampling a meadow wildflower.  Colors
danced behind Nora' S closed lids as she allowed her lips to cling.

She trembled as his palms slid over her shoulders and down her arms to
her wrists before linking their fingers.  She sighed as he traced the
tender outline of her mouth with the tip of his tongue.  Tension slowly
began to dissolve, replaced by trust.  And something he might have
thought to be love--if Quinn had believed in such an impossible alien
thing.

A door slammed downstairs, followed by the sound of Brady's voice.
Nora?  Where are you, darling?"

They immediately drew apart at the sound of boots clattering up the
stairs.  The anxiety Quinn had witnessed in Nora's eyes earlier had
been replaced by confusion.

"How do you do that?"  she whispered shakily.

"Do what?"

She lifted her hand as if to comb it through her hair, then dropped it
helplessly to her side.  "Kiss me and make my mind go as clean as
polished glass."

"Oh, that."  Despite the circumstances, Quinn grinned.  "Magic."

Chapter Fifteen

Broken Wings

The drive to Galway was mostly silent.  Brady, for once, seemed to have
no stories to tell.  But that didn't mean they weren't going on in his
head.  And from the bleak look in the man's gaze every time Quinn
glanced into the rearview mirror, he decided that he wasn't the only
one in the car familiar with horror tales.

Nora, too, seemed to have lost the capacity for speech.  She sat erect
in the passenger seat, her gaze directed out the windshield.  She was
marble pale and would have reminded him of some statue carved from the
smooth white stone had it not been for her hands.  She seemed incapable
of keeping them still, for they fluttered in her lap like wounded
birds.

Sometimes she twisted them together until the knuckles turned white or
dragged them through her hair.  Every so often she pressed her
fingertips against her eyelids.

Finally Quinn reached out and captured one of those hands in his. "It's
going to be all right."  He squeezed comfortingly before putting their
joined hands on his thigh.  "Fionna's going to be all right."

For the first time since she'd gotten that horrid phone call from that
Irish Times reporter five years ago telling her about Conor's accident,
she felt absolutely lost.

She looked at Quinn.  "You can't know that for certain."

"True.  But although I've never claimed to be the least bit psychic, I
feel it in my bones.  And besides, Kate said the same thing."

"I know."  Nora bit her lip and turned to stare unseeingly at the front
window again.  "That's the only thing that's keeping me from
screaming."

By the time they reached the Galway airfield, Quinn had already called
the hospital twice.  Both times they'd learned nothing, although a news
bulletin broadcast on Radio One over the Mercedes radio did relate that
the bomb had damaged the parking garage and nearly the entire
street-level floor of a Derry department store.  The number of injured
were stretching local hospitals to the limit.

Since the single flight of her life had been aboard a prop plane from
Shannon to Dublin with Conor,

Nora was momentarily startled out of her fear and depression by the
sight of the chartered private jet.

"You've booked us our very own plane?"

Quinn shrugged as the trio walked across the tarmac.  "It seemed
easier.  And faster."

"It must have cost you a fortune."

Another shrug.  "My accountant keeps telling me I've more money than I
can spend in several lifetimes.  Might as well make use of it.,"

Wondering what it must be like to have so much money it had lost its
importance, Nora waited beside her still-silent father while Quinn
introduced himself to the waiting pilot and the two men discussed the
flight plan for the brief trip to the north.  Kate had finally gotten
through to someone who could give her some information, and called them
on Quinn's cellular phone with the welcome news that Fionna's injuries
were considered minor.

More hopeful than she'd been since leaving the farm, Nora boarded the
plane with Quinn, her father and the pilot.

"Oh!  It's as luxurious as a fine city hotel," Nora breathed as she
stared around the roomy interior that reminded her of the Shelbourne.
She and Conor had stayed there on their wedding night before going on
to London where he had a race the next morning.  At the time she'd been
certain that a palace could not have been fancier.

"It'll do," Quinn said.  He glanced at her.  She was still too pale. So
was Brady.  Quinn wondered what his chances were of getting either of
them to take a brief nap.  The jet had two bedrooms.  "Perhaps you
should lie down--"

"No."  She shook her head, her tone firm.  "I'm fine."  She turned
toward her father.  "But, Da, I think a rest might do you good."

When her father lifted his head, Quinn realized where Nora had gotten
her habit of jutting out her chin.  "What kind of man would you think
I'd be Sleeping while my mam may be lying in some hospital bed
dying?"

"Gran's not dying.  The doctor told Kate her only injuries are a broken
wrist and possible concussion

"She's not a young woman," Brady argued.  "A concussion could be
serious.  And then there's her heart..."  He pressed a weathered hand
against his own chest.  "Oh, Jaysus."

Quinn caught the older man as he sank to his knees.

"Da!"  Nora knelt beside the biscuit-colored suede chair Quinn had
lowered her father into.  "What's wrong?  Should we be having the pilot
call the doctor?"

"I'm fine."  He patted the back of her hand.  "I just got a little
light-headed, darling.  I think it's the airsickness."

"We haven't taken off yet."

"Anticipation is a fearsome thing," he countered.  "And besides, that
long drive made me a wee bit dizzy."

Nora gave him a long probing look, damning the storytelling ability
that made her father such a gifted liar.  The color was coming back
into a complexion that had momentarily been the hue of putty.

Horribly torn between a need to be at her grandmother's hospital bed,
to see for herself that the doctor had told Kate the truth about
Fionna's lack of life-threatening injuries, and concern for her father,
Nora glanced up at Quinn.

"Your call," he murmured.

She worried an un lacquered thumbnail with her teeth as she tried to
make the critical decision.

"I'm the father of the family," Brady stated firmly.  "Which means I'll
be the one to make the decision.  And I say we're wasting time arguing
when we could be in the air on the way to Derry."

Nora couldn't remember the last time her father had stood his ground
about anything.  Although there'd never been a day in her life that she
hadn't loved him, there had been times when the thought had crossed her
mind that Brady Joyce was a bit weak.  Since the idea seemed disloyal,
she'd always put it away.  But now, for the second time in two days,
she was witnessing a spark of the man Eleanor Joyce had fallen in love
with.

Still troubled, Nora looked up at Quinn.  "We'll be going to Derry."

His brief nod told her he would have made the same decision.  "I'll
tell the pilot."

Before he left the lounge, Quinn reached down,

caught her chin in his hand and smoothed his thumb over her downturned
lips.  "Everything's going to be fine."

And although it didn't make any sense at all, because it was Quinn
telling her this, Nora chose to believe him.

After all the fuss about Brady not wanting to rest for fretting about
his mother, Nora was stunned when he refused to enter the hospital.

"You can't be serious!"  She stared at her father in disbelief. "Surely
you can't be telling me you've come all the way to the North with me
only to sit outside the hospital where your own mother may be dying?"

"Nora."  Quinn was standing beside her next to the hired long black car
that had been waiting for them at the Derry airfield.  The car her
father was still inside.  He reached out a calming hand.  "That's not
what Kate said."

She whirled on him.  "Don't you be telling me what my own sister-in-law
told me," she flared.  Fear and anxiety conspired to fuel the temper
she usually managed to keep well banked.  "This is family business."

And you're not family.  Quinn read her unstated message loud and
clear.

"You're right."  He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, but
didn't budge.  "I may not be family,

but I can tell this is hard enough on your father.  Don't make it
worse."

"Of course it's hard on him, having Fionna in hospital."  For the first
time since he'd met her, her eyes were as hard as stones.  She leaned
into the long black limousine.  "Well, let me tell you something, Da,"
she said.  "It's a lot harder having your mam die on you without so
much as having an opportunity to say goodbye.  Or being able to tell
her how much you love her..."

Her voice cracked and she turned away for a moment, drawing in a ragged
breath that told Quinn she was not thinking of Fionna right now but of
her own mother.

He watched with admiration as she straightened her shoulders.  And her
resolve.  Then turned back to her father.  "You need to get out of the
bloody car and come in with me.  Now."

Brady's eyes were suspiciously shiny, but his jaw remained firm.
"You've no right using such a tone with your father, Nora."  He looked
past her up to Quinn.  "Would you be doing me a favor, lad?"

"Of course," Quinn said, earning another dagger-like glare from Nora.

"Take my daughter in to see her grandmother.  And tell Fionna that I
love her."

"Da--" Nora started in again.

"Consider it done."  Quinn cupped her elbow, pulling her away from the
limo.  "Come on, sweetheart.  We'd better get in there before Fionna
starts roaming the halls interviewing patients in search of Bernadette
miracles."

"I don't believe this."  She shook her head, her face a study of
frustration and sorrow.  "You've disappointed me before, Da," she said
quietly.  Painfully.  "But never so much as you have this day."

With that indictment ringing in the air, she shook off Quinn's touch,
turned and walked past him, headed toward the glass doors.

Quinn paused.  "I'm sorry," he told Brady.  The older man only waved a
weary hand.  "Nora has a right to her feelings.  And later, after you
come out and tell me that my mother is her typical hale-and-hearty
self, I'll be enjoying the fact that for the first time in years, my
daughter has someone to lean on.  Believe me, Quinn, witnessing her
surrender the reins of total control of the family, even for an
afternoon, is worth being the target of a few hasty words spoken out of
fear."

Quinn gave Brady another, longer look, realizing he may have
underestimated the man.  "I'll take care of her."

Brady leaned back against the rich black leather seat and closed his
eyes.  "Of course you will."

Nora was arguing with a gray-smocked reception clerk when Quinn caught
up with her.

"Let me," he murmured, stroking her arm.  "Hello."  He flashed his best
smile at the pink-faced twenty-something woman seated behind the
computer screen.  "I'm Quinn Gallagher.  And this is Nora Joyce."

He told himself the only reason he'd omitted her married name was that
it complicated the matter unnecessarily.  It had nothing to do with the
reality that, all logic aside, he was still jealous as hell at the idea
of her having belonged to any other man.

"We'd like the room number of Fionna Joyce.  She was brought in shortly
after the bombing."

"Are you from the authorities?"

"No.  We're family."

"Visiting hours aren't until this evening."

"I understand."  Another smile, warmer than the first.  A hundred-proof
grin designed to entice.  "And I realize that if you allow everyone to
broach the rules--" Quinn's friendly gaze settled momentarily on her
name tag "--Ms.  Barry, the wards would be chaos, rather than the
well-ordered places I've no doubt they are in a hospital with such an
exemplary staff."

"However,"he said, tightening his fingers ever so slightly on Nora's
arm when he sensed her opening her mouth to resume arguing, "we've come
a very long way.  From Castlelough, and--"

"From Castlelough?"  The woman, whose expression had remained one of
bureaucratic boredom, despite Quinn's attempt at charm, suddenly perked
up.  "Did you say your name was Gallagher?"

"Quinn Gallagher," he agreed.

"You're the American novelist."

His answering smile suggested she was, indeed, the brightest woman in
all of Northern Ireland.  "Guilty."

"I saw all about the movie they're making out of your book in
Castlelough on the television news."  Her eyes narrowed as they slid
back to Nora.  "Are you one of the movie people, as well?"

"No, and I don't see what any of this has to do with--"

"You'll have to excuse Ms.  Joyce's impatience," Quinn cut in smoothly.
"She's been frantic about her grandmother.  Mrs.  Fionna Joyce," he
reminded the clerk as he inclined his head toward her computer screen,
which was currently flashing brand names of prescription drugs as a
screen saver.

"Joyce."  She began tapping away obligingly on the keyboard.  "Is
Fionna spelled with one n or two?"

"Two," Nora supplied with a very un Nora-like curtness.

"Here it is.  Room 625."  Ignoring Nora, the clerk turned her attention
back to Quinn.  "She's had a cast put on her wrist and is going to have
to remain overnight for observation," she reiterated what Kate had
already told them.  "You'd best keep your visit brief.  This is a
teaching hospital and it's almost time for evening rounds.  The doctors
get very annoyed when their presentations are interrupted."

"We'll be in and out before anyone even knows we've been here," Quinn
promised.  "Thank you,

Ms.  Barry."  Taking Nora's elbow again, he began leading her toward
the bank of elevators.  "You've been a true angel of mercy."

"Angel, ha!"  Nora said tightly as the steel gray doors closed behind
them.  "Since when do angels undress men with their beady little
eyes?"

"I didn't think you noticed," Quinn said smoothly.  "As upset as you
were about your dear old granny."

"I am upset about Gran!"  Her lips trembled even as her eyes flashed.
"I'm also upset about the way you seem to have taken over my life like
some rich, jackbooted Yank storm trooper."

"I see."  He watched the numbers flash in orange lights above the door.
"Are you referring to my driving you and Brady to Galway?  Arranging
for a private plane so you wouldn't have to waste precious time in the
terminal waiting to be packed onto a commercial flight like a sardine
in a can?

"Or the car, perhaps.  Did you find the limousine a wee bit
ostentatious for your humble Irish country tastes?"

Nora couldn't help it.  His gently teasing tone smoothed the ragged
edges of temper, calmed her nerves and soothed the fear that had been
bubbling away inside her like acid.

"This isn't the way it's supposed to work," she murmured.  Like him she
was watching the numbers flash by.  "You're supposed to be the nasty
one.  And

I'm supposed to be the one jollying you out of your moods."

"Believe me, sweetheart, you'll undoubtedly have plenty more
opportunities to do exactly that.  And although I'm not against a bit
of role reversal, I'm going to have to put my foot down about
tonight."

"Tonight?"

"I promised you dinner," he reminded her as the elevator reached the
sixth floor with an electronic ding.  "And rich, jackbooted Yank storm
trooper that I am, I have every intention of taking you out for the
best meal in Derry."

Not giving her an opportunity to argue his renewed plans, he ushered
her out the open doorway.  By following the numbers and arrows posted
on the wall, he found the way to Fionna's hospital room.

Nora was more than a little relieved when she saw her grandmother
sitting up in bed watching the television bolted to the wall.

"Shouldn't you be lying down?"

"It's too difficult to watch the telly that way," Fionna said with a
great deal of calm for someone who'd just survived a bombing.

* "But you've been hurt."

""Tis barely a scratch."  She lifted her wrist, encased in white
plaster.  "Though I worry this will be troublesome when I knit.  I
tried to talk the doctor into using one of those stretch elastic
bandages, but you know how stubborn folks are up here in the North."

"Not at all like folks in the South," Nora said dryly.  "At least you
agreed to stay the night."

"Oh, I'll not be spending the night.  I suspected Quinn would be
bringing you, and since this room is a great deal more comfy than the
crowded emergency department downstairs, I was willing to let them
check me in while I waited.

"Mrs.  Murphy and I have been passing the time watching the scenes of
the bombing and lamenting the foolishness of men."

She tilted her bright red-gold head, which seemed strangely dusted with
white powder, toward the occupant of the other bed in the room.  The
middle-aged woman's leg was held up in the air by a system of
pulleys.

"Were you injured in the blast, as well?"  Nora asked the woman
politely.

"Oh, I was, indeed.  Blew me right out of my shoes, it did.  Broke my
leg in three places."  She scowled.  "And to think it had taken me all
day to find a pair of pumps to go with my new Sunday dress.  And now
they're gone."

"They were a lovely navy," Fionna divulged.  "With white trim.  Of
course we wouldn't be lamenting them if anyone had been seriously
hurt."

"Aye," Mrs.  Murphy agreed promptly with a nod of her snowy head.  "And
isn't that a miracle?"

"The police are reporting the major damage was done to the parking
garage," Nora said.

Fionna sighed.  "I suppose that means I've lost my lovely
automobile."

"We can always buy you a new car."  Nora sat down on the edge of the
bed and took hold of her grandmother's hand.  "What's important is that
you--and everyone else shopping in the store are all right."

"There is another good thing."

"What's that?"

"I was having the devil's own time finding anyone to wait on me."  Her
grandmother's wicked grin reminded Nora a great deal of Brady's.  "So I
hadn't yet paid for your new blazer."

They shared a laugh.  Then Nora sobered.  "Da's downstairs waiting in
the car.  I tried to talk him into coming in with me, but..."

"Well, of course he couldn't do that."

"How did you know?"

"Isn't Brady my son?  And doesn't a mother know what disturbs her
child, just as you know what upsets your own dear Rory?"  Fionna turned
toward Quinn.  "Brady was born at home.  In the same bed you're
sleeping in, Mr.  Gallagher."

"I hadn't realized that."

"Well, of course you'd be having no way of knowing.  It was my bed at
the time.  Mine and my darling Patrick's.  When Brady and Eleanor
married, it was passed down to them.  As it was passed down to you,
Nora, when you and Conor wed."

"Da said at the time it made more sense, with Mam gone, for him to be
taking the single."

"That's true enough.  But part of the reason he gave it up when you
married was that it was too painful for him trying to get a decent
night's sleep in the bed where he'd spent so many years with your mam.
The very same bed where dear Celia should have been born."

"All the rest of us were born at home," Nora explained to Quinn.

"As have all the Joyce babies," Fionna agreed.  "For as long as anyone
can remember.  But your mother's pregnancy with Celia was a difficult
one.  Which is why the doctor arranged for her to have her baby in
hospital at Galway, instead of at home."

And the Galway hospital was where her mother had died.  Nora began to
understand why her father had refused to leave the limousine.

"But this isn't the same hospital," she said.

"No.  But hospitals are much the same the world over, darling.  And the
memories are probably too difficult for your dear da to handle."

"Oh, God."  Nora shut her eyes.  "I was so hard on him."

"He understood you were upset," Quinn assured her.

"Of course he did," Fionna agreed with her usual brisk manner.  "And no
harm has been done.  I'll just be getting dressed now and we'll leave
here, and--"

"No," Nora said swiftly.  Firmly.

"What did you say, darling?"  Fionna looked up at her as if she'd just
spoken a foreign language.

"I said no."  She folded her arms across her chest.  "I'll not be
giving Da another reason to hate hospitals by checking you out early,
then having you drop dead because of some terrible fatal head
injury."

"The only thing wrong with my head is that I can still hear that
explosion going off in it."  She grimaced as she combed her fingers
through the lank strands.  "And my hair is in frightful need of a
washing.  It's full of plaster dust."

"It won't do you any good to argue, Gran."  Nora heard a flurry of
activity behind her and turned to see a group of white-jacketed doctors
standing in the doorway.  "Well, it appears it's time for rounds.  We'd
best be leaving."

"But, Nora

"We're in the doctors' way."  Having sensed her grandmother gearing up
for a battle, Nora was more than a little relieved at the timely
interruption.  She bent down and kissed Fionna's cheek.  "Sleep well.
We'll be back in the morning to fetch you home."

"Traitor," Fionna muttered, nevertheless kissing Nora back.  She looked
up at Quinn.  "Thank you for getting my granddaughter here so promptly.
I trust you'll be taking good care of her tonight, as well."

"I'm going to do my best."

"Aye.  I've no doubt of that."  Fionna tilted her face, offering her
cheek to him.  "Now give me a quick kiss and get back to my son before
he worries himself into an early grave."

She wasn't his grandmother.  But as he did as instructed, Quinn felt a
strange jolt of some strong, almost familial emotion.  He covered it
smoothly.

"You're a remarkably brave woman, Fionna Joyce."  He took her uninjured
hand and, in a gesture that seemed to surprise everyone in the room,
including himself, lifted her fingertips to his lips.  "And although
I'm no expert on miracles, I have to wonder if your pull with
Bernadette might not be the reason everyone in that store managed to
survive the bombing."

"Faith, I hadn't thought of that."  The elderly woman's eyes lit up.
"I'll have to be doing some investigating after I get out of here."

"You'll be coming straight home to the farm as soon as you're out of
here," Nora insisted.  "You can always write up your report from
there." Her voice and her expression gentled.  "The children are
worried, Gran. Although they've been told you're all right, they're
going to want to see you back home safe and sound for themselves."

"You wouldn't be trying to make me feel guilty now, would you, Nora?"

"Me?"  Nora flashed her first genuine smile of the day.  "Would I be
doing such a thing?"

Fionna laughed.  "You're definitely your father's daughter, Nora
Fitzpatrick," she called out as they left the hospital room.

* * *

Brady sat alone in the back of the limousine, thinking he should be
making a close study of the fancy car.  He doubted there were many in
Castlelough who'd ever seen a limousine, much less ridden in one.
Wouldn't they want to be hearing all about it?  The tale should be good
for several pints at the very least.

The problem was, he couldn't concentrate on the sparkling Waterford
crystal vase in the ever-popular Lismore pattern, or the fine leather
seats, or the bar with champagne on ice or even the television.

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his closed lids so
hard he saw stars.  But it wasn't enough to rid his mind of the
profound disappointment on his daughter's face as she'd walked away
from him.

Chapter Sixteen

You Touched Upon My Life

Her grandmother's words stayed with Nora all the way back down the hall
and during the seemingly interminable elevator ride to the street
floor.

"I owe Da an apology," she murmured finally.

"He doesn't need it."  Quinn smoothed at the lines furrowing her
forehead.  "Brady's your father, Nora.  He loves you.  He understands
you were under a lot of stress."

"I should have realized..."

"You're not a mind reader.  And just because your mother died doesn't
mean you now have to be in charge of the entire world, sweetheart," he
said as they walked out the double glass doors of the emergency
department.

He stopped on the sidewalk and, forgetting his lifelong aversion to
public displays of emotion, took her in his arms and pressed his lips
to the top of her head.  "You've already done more than your share to
pick up the reins of the family.  Brady realizes that."

Nora wasn't accustomed to being comforted.  And although she was
frightened by how good it felt to have Quinn's strong arms around her,
to have someone to lean on for a change instead of being the one
everyone leaned on, she allowed herself to cling.  Just for a minute.

"I owe you so much," she murmured into his shirt.  "The way you
arranged for Kate to stay with the children.  For the driving.  The
plane.  And the fancy black car."  She looked up at him, her eyes
moist.  "For everything."  For being you, she thought, but did not say
for fear of chasing him away.  "I don't know how to thank you."

"Don't worry."  He flashed a wicked grin as he flicked a finger down
the slope of her nose.  "We'll think of something."

As with everything else in this country, Quinn's dinner did not go
according to plan.  Instead of a romantic dinner for two in Galway, he
was forced to watch as Nora and Brady treated each other with a
strained politeness that set his nerves on edge.

They'd begun with a bottle of champagne, appropriate, he'd said when
he'd ordered, to toast Fionna's surviving the bombing virtually
unscathed.  Nora and

Brady had obediently clinked glasses, but their expressions remained as
stiff as department-store mannequins.

Time after time he attempted to start a conversation, but the
uncharacteristic silence kept hovering over the table, through the
smoked-salmon first course, the excellent lamb entree, and now it
appeared that dessert would be ruined by the downcast mood, as well.

Unaccustomed to failure, Quinn decided to give it one last shot.  "So,
Brady," he said, leaning back in the brocade covered chair, "have you
ever considered writing your stories down?"

"No, I haven't."

Quinn resisted the urge to grind his teeth.  "May I ask why not?  It
certainly seems there'd be an audience, especially with all the
Americans boasting Irish ancestry."

"Not all Americans are interested in their roots," Nora said quietly.

"True.  But I'll bet enough are that your dad could earn a bundle if he
only took the time--"

"It's not the time."  Brady's voice held no more enthusiasm than
Nora's.  "Writing my tales down would offend my belief in the oral
tradition."

"Da's already turned down offers from publishing houses in Dublin and
London," Nora divulged with a bit more strength.

"And New York, too," Brady reminded her.

"Aye."  She smiled for the first time since they'd entered the
five-star hotel dining room.  "The poor man was quite put out that he'd
flown all the way across an ocean only to be sent back home again
empty-handed."  When she named the famous publisher, Quinn said, "You
actually had the man come here?  From New York?"

"It was his choice," Brady explained.  "Didn't he choose not to believe
me when I'd already told him no in a letter?  And all those phone
calls?"

"His wife heard Da at the Puck Fair and tape-recorded some of his
stories," Nora said.  "When she returned home, she played them for her
husband, who was quite impressed."

"There are probably thousands of writers who'd sell their souls for an
offer from that house."

"A soul's a high price to pay for success," Brady said.  "I was
speaking metaphorically."  Quinn had almost forgotten how seriously
religion was taken in this country.  Wasn't a centuries-old religious
conflict the reason Fionna was lying in a hospital right now?

"of course you were, lad.  And you're right.  Many at The Rose called
me a fool for turning down such a generous offer.  But I've given the
best years of my life to the oral tradition.  It didn't seem right to
sell out a belief.  Even if it would pay for a new roof."

"And that prize bull John Kavanagh was wanting to sell us," Nora
reminded him without reproach.  She turned back to Quinn.  "Da's never
approved of writing the stories down.  He insists they're meant to be
told, to be passed down from generation to generation."

"That's commendable," Quinn allowed.  "Although I'll have to admit I'm
glad not everyone feels that way."

"Oh, books are lovely in their own fashion," Brady said, a bit more
lilt in his brogue.  "But what's right for one is not always right for
another."

"True."

"Da's been asked to perform at the heritage center at Ardagh this
summer," Nora revealed with unmistakable daughterly pride.  "That's the
village where Saint Patrick consecrated Saint Mel as bishop."

"Aye, and that's an important enough historical event," Brady allowed
as he reached into his pocket, took out a pouch of tobacco and began
filling his pipe.  "But I was thinking I'd be telling the story of Una
Brian."

"Oh, Da."  Nora frowned.  "That's such a sad tale."

"Aye, I can see how some might view it that way.  But others might have
a different opinion.  And won't it give me an opportunity to sing, as
well."  He turned to Quinn.  "Not that I'd be wanting to boast, mind
you, but there are those who say I've a fine tenor voice."

"You've a grand voice," Nora said.  "And, of course the fact that your
favorite version of the song runs forty-five verses wouldn't have
anything to do with you choosing that particular story."

""Tis a long tale.  It needs to be told in its own time."  There was
another pause as Brady looked expectantly at Quinn.

"Of course I'm going to bite," Quinn said, leaning back in his chair
and taking a sip of his after-dinner brandy.  "I'd love to hear it."

"Well, now, since you asked..."  As the older man lit the pipe, the
flare from the match danced merrily in bright blue eyes that once again
reminded Quinn of a leprechaun.  "In County Roscommon, there's a lovely
lough that spreads wide and serene on the upper Shannon River.  In the
very center of the lake, there's a lonely island--"

"Castle Island," Nora interjected.

"Now who'd be telling this tale?"  Brady asked.

Nora's answering grin revealed that things were back to normal.  "You
are, Da."

"And isn't that what I was thinking?"  He huffed out a breath, leaned
back and puffed on his pipe.  "Well, to continue my story, Castle
Island was, for many centuries, the seat of the MacDermotts.

"Now I tell you that there was a fair and handsome daughter named Una,
who attracted the love of a man named Thomas Costello, who went by the
nickname Tumaus Loidher, which is Irish for Strong Thomas.  There was,
in Ireland at the time, no man with the strength of Thomas Costello.
Indeed, he was so strong that when he was only a lad, about seventeen
years or so, a bully--a man who'd already killed a great many
people-came to the town of Sligo and challenged the entire county to
put forth a man to wrestle with him.

"Well, as it so happens, Thomas had come to the town with his father's
brother and they watched as the bully hurled man after man to the
ground.  In those days, you see, the unfortunate city would be forced
to support the champion.

"Against his uncle's wishes, Thomas volunteered to wrestle, but his
uncle refused again and again until finally he grew weary of the young
man's beseeching and gave him permission to fight.

"There was a gasp from the people gathered, because they feared that
such a young man would surely be killed.  Young girls and women wept,
and it's said that even Thomas's own uncle had tears on his face.

"But Thomas knew he was stronger than the people thought.  Indeed, the
muscles in his arms were as firm and hard as iron, so when the match
began, he grabbed the bully before the man could get hold of him and
squeezed.  Now everyone, especially Thomas, was puzzled when the
champion didn't fight back.  But then, when Thomas released him, the
man fell back, stone-cold dead, don't you know, his back broken.  And
that was the first of many heroic feats Thomas Costello performed.

"But that is neither here nor there--there are so many stories about
the grand deeds Tumaus Loidher performed that if I were to begin
relating them, I'd never cease--and I must be getting on with my story
before Nora complains that I've gotten sidetracked again."

"I wasn't going to say a thing," Nora insisted.

"And aren't you a fine polite girl."

Quinn watched as Brady beamed at Nora, causing her to smile back.

"As I was saying, Thomas, who was much beloved by the people, fell in
love with the fair Una MacDermott and she with him.  But Thomas was not
a rich man, and the MacDermotts were a family of property, don't you
know, and MacDermott had already chosen a wealthy man for his daughter
to wed.

"And then of course, there was that other dilemma I must tell you,
which I forgot to tell you before, that the Costellos and MacDermotts
had taken opposing sides during the Cromwellian upheavals, like Irish
Capulets and Montagues, you see, and there was no way MacDermott was
going to allow his family to be linked with the one who'd lost out in
the Cromwellian settlement.

"Una was heartbroken and when she fell ill of lovesickness, her father
finally allowed Thomas to visit her, but when MacDermott continued to
withhold his consent to a marriage, Thomas grew angry and rode away,
swearing never to return if he was not recalled before crossing the
Donogue River to his own home.

He tarried for a long time in the water, awaiting a messenger from his
fair Una,but finally, after being taunted by a servant for surrendering
his pride to a woman, he drove his horse up onto the bank.  He was
scarcely on dry ground when a messenger did, indeed, come from Una,
entreating him to come back to her.

"But Thomas was known throughout the land as a man of his word, don't
you see, and he'd given his vow not to return once he'd crossed the
river."

"Pride goeth before a fall," Quinn murmured.

"Aye.  You've spoken the sad truth.  And Thomas was a fearsome prideful
man."  Brady gave a regretful shake of his head.  "To pursue the story
further, 'twas after this regretful day that grief and melancholy
settled hard on poor Una.  She died of a broken heart and was buried on
Trinity Island in Lough Key.

"Thomas swam his horse to that very same island every night to lament
their tragically lost love, and during those lonely nights, he composed
the passionate tormented poem he called Una B."  or Fair Una, as it's
also known by some.  And then, his own heavy heart broken, as well, he
died and, as he had requested, was buried beside the darling love of
his life.

"And it was soon after that an ash tree magically grew out of Una's
grave.  And another out of the grave where Thomas Costello had been
laid to rest, and they inclined toward each other like lovers, and kept
growing until the branches entwined like a bower over the two
sweethearts who were finally together at last.

"And if you go to Lough Key today, you'll see poor MacDermott's castle
still standing amidst the tangled thickets of briers, wrapped in ivy
and creepers, looking for all the world like Sleeping Beauty's castle,
awaiting young Tumaus Loidher to return and bring it back to life
again."

"Great story," Quinn murmured, lifting his glass in a salute.  A man
who'd written tales of banshees, ghost stallions and lake serpents
could appreciate the story of an ill-fated romance and a castle
awaiting rebirth.  "A tragic tale of man's flaws of pride and
prejudice."

"Aye, I've always thought so, as well.  But you'd be overlooking the
most important part.  The part about two lovers reunited after death."
There was something in his voice, something deep and profound that made
Quinn wonder if the older man could be thinking of his own lost love.

"You're not only a splendid storyteller yourself, Quinn Gallagher,"
Brady suddenly declared, his mood lightening once again.  "You're a
good and generous fellow, getting me talking so as to help ease the
pain I've been suffering all day."

"I enjoy hearing tales.  And yours was a good one."

"It's a fine tale, sure enough.  But that doesn't take away from the
truth that you're an equally fine man."

He'd been called many things.  But good and generous had never been
words used to describe him.  Uncomfortable with the personal turn the
conversation had taken, Quinn declared the evening at an end by calling
for the check.

In a quirk of bad timing, The Chieftains were appearing in Derry's
concert hall, and members of the group had booked all the suites in the
hotel.  The other top hotels were booked as well, but fortunately
Brenda had proven her usual efficient self, managing to reserve
adjoining rooms for Quinn and Nora, and one for Brady on the floor
below.

Remembering what Laura had said about the gossip concerning his
relationship with Nora Fitzpatrick, he decided that Brenda booking
Nora's father on a different floor had not been a coincidence.

When they returned to their respective rooms, Quinn found the comforter
turned down, a piece of minty chocolate on the pillow and the radio
tuned to some local station that specialized in "easy listening."  The
work of the unseen maid was, Quinn thought, the first familiar thing
he'd experienced since stepping off the plane at Shannon.

He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white dress
shirt' kicked off his shoes and was eyeing his door between the room
and Nora's.  Feeling like a nervous groom awaiting his bride, he was
trying to decide whether he should knock or just take the bull by the
goddamn horns and go in when the door suddenly opened and Nora stood
there, still in the somber heather gray dress she'd worn to dinner.
Tension whipped through him like a whirlwind.  He didn't speak.
Amazingly he couldn't.  On some distant level Quinn found it ironic
that, after having wanted Nora since that first drunken moment he'd
stepped out of the back of Sergeant O'Neill's patrol car and seen her
standing in front of the house, back-lit by the yellow porch light and
looking like an ancient Celtic goddess, he now couldn't move to take
what she'd come to offer him.

As if possessing the ability to read his mind, she smiled faintly.
Softly.  And he felt the iceberg encasing his heart crack a little
more, as it seemed to do whenever she was near.

"Da made you uncomfortable tonight."  Her throaty voice proved
devastatingly potent.  "When he called you a good and generous man."

She'd come to know him well.  Too well.  "Your father has an overactive
imagination."

"Aye."  She closed the door behind her.  And did not look back.  "He
does, indeed.  But like all seanachies, he's a student of human
nature."  She crossed the room to stand in front of him.  "Why is it
that a simple statement of truth should make you turn the color of
ashes?"

"Now it's you with the wild imagination."  His hand felt abnormally
heavy as he lifted it to stroke her hair.  The fiery waves felt like
silk beneath his palm.  He knew her skin was even softer.

"Oh, I've always been the practical one in the family.  Ask anyone."
She went up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.  "You are a good
man, Quinn Gallagher.  No matter what you say."

The touch of her mouth caused a painful thrumming in his loins.  He'd
wanted her, all right.  But now that he was on the verge of having her,
Quinn realized that wanting was too simple for what he was feeling.
Music drifted from the bedside radio, soft and dreamy.  "I just
realized, that as pleasant as dinner was," he said, "we missed an
important part of our evening."

"And what would that be?"

"I'd intended romance."  He touched her hair again and looked down at
her while she looked back up at him, both paused on the brink of
something that had seemed inevitable from the beginning.

Her eyes were wide and innocent, and if he hadn't known better, he'd
have thought she was yet untouched, as if waiting for him.

"I want to dance with you, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick."

"Why, that sounds lovely, Mr.  Gallagher."

He took her easily into his arms, his fingers spanning her waist, her
hand resting lightly on his shoulder as they swayed to the romantic
ballad.

His body was hard against hers, his breath a soft breeze against her
temple.  It surprised Nora that despite the difference in their
heights, they seemed to fit well together.  The tenseness that had
gripped her body and heart since the argument with her father, the
anxiety that had had her nerves screeching when she'd dared to open
that door between their rooms slid away as she surrendered to the
romance of the music, of this one stolen night.  Sighing her pleasure,
she lifted her arms and linked her fingers together behind his neck.
Her eyes drifted closed.

Her soft curves were pressed against him in a way that made him ache.
He nuzzled her neck and breathed in the scents of the same white soap
and herbal shampoo he used in the shower every morning.  There was also
another faint fragrance that reminded him of Irish druids dancing in
fairy rings.  In the rain.

"You've changed your scent."

"Aye."  Her eyelids fluttered open ever so slightly and in them he saw
unmistakable desire.  "I bought a bottle of ridiculously dear perfume
at Monohan's."  Her smile was one of contradictions, managing to be
both shy and vixen-alluring at the same time.  "I was hoping to seduce
you." Her fingers stroked the back of his neck, playing with the dark
hair that nearly brushed his collar.

"If that was your plan, you're succeeding admirably.  And you
definitely could have pulled it off without the new perfume."  He
touched his mouth to her temple.  "But I like it, just the same."

"I'm pleased.  Since I bought the body lotion and powder, as well.  It
took such a long time to spread it on this evening, I was afraid I'd be
late to dinner.

Although I wash my skin every morning in the shower, I never realized
how much I have."

The idea of Nora wearing nothing but perfume and powder licked at his
desire, causing it to flame higher.  He drew back a little.  "You know
I want you."

"Aye.  That's what you've been saying.  From the first."

"The thing is..."  Hell, her body was practically melting against his.
and the fingers stroking his neck were driving him to distraction.  He
stopped moving to the music and captured both her hands.  "The thing
is, you're an intelligent woman..."

"What a lovely thing to say.  And although it's a fine compliment, I
think I'd rather, just for tonight, that you tell me how beautiful I
am."  Her hands were shackled in his, but that didn't stop her from
pressing her smiling lips to his throat.  "And how much you want to go
to bed with me."

"Oh, Christ."  The words, and the groan, were ripped from somewhere
deep inside him.  "My point is..  and I do have one," he managed to say
on a gasp as her tongue dampened his hot flesh' "is that a decent
intelligent woman like you shouldn't be here like this.  You deserve a
man who can give you what you need."

"And if I need you?"

The softly spoken words were part question, part request.  Never had
Quinn had more difficulty drawing air in and out of his lungs.

"Dammit, Nora, you should take off running."  Her lips felt like a
brand, making this the hardest thing he'd ever done.  "While you still
can."

"Oh, Quinn."  She shook her head, her eyes shimmering with a host of
complex emotions.  "Don't you see?"  She skimmed her mouth over his
jaw, until it was a mere whisper away from his grimly set lips.

"It's too late for running."

The touch of her soft succulent mouth against his was like a spark
against dry under.  "Too late," Quinn said roughly as he hauled her
against him.  "For either of us."

Chapter Seventeen

Towards the Mist

Quinn released her hands, but only to grab her hips, lifting her
against him, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, greedy lips to lips as he
half carried, half dragged her to the bed.

Sweep the widow Fitzpatrick off her feet, he heard Laura's voice
echoing through his heated mind.

And wasn't he doing exactly that?

Unable to remember when he'd felt so free, Quinn laughed as they landed
on the double mattress in a tangle of arms and legs.  Her hair wound
around them, wrapping him in fragrance.  He kissed her, a long deep wet
kiss that made him quake from within.

"God, you're sweet."  His hands dived into the silk strands of her hair
and pulled her mouth back to his.  "And potent.  I've never been with a
woman who can make me as drunk with a single taste as you can."

"And I've never been with a man who made me feel like the type of woman
who could make a man drunk."  She dragged her mouth away and lifted her
head.  "It's a fearful feeling."

"Ah, sweetheart."  One hand smoothed its way down the back of her dress
in a reassuring gesture while the other delved beneath the gray skirt.
When he realized she wasn't wearing the expected panty hose, but
stockings that ended with a border of lace high on her porcelain-smooth
bare thigh, Quinn felt his blood begin to boil.

The feel of his hand on her skin made her stiffen ever so slightly.
"It's okay," he crooned.  "You don't have to be afraid."  His palm
edged higher.  "I'd never hurt you."

He knew that was a lie even as he said the words.  For he would hurt
her.  He could only hope that someday years from now, when she was
happily married to some easygoing Irish farmer who adored her and the
children they would undoubtedly have together, Nora would forgive him
for tonight.

"It's not you I'm fearful of, but me.  Of how you make me feel."  He
felt her soft sigh against his mouth, felt her body relax as he
continued his caressing touch up her leg.  "And you've had so many
women..."

"None like you."  Easy words, designed to trip off the tongue as they
had in so many similar situations.  But never had Quinn meant them more
than he did at this moment.

"I'm afraid of disappointing you."

He couldn't help himself.  He laughed at that as he rolled them over on
their sides.  A rough lust-edged sound that was half groan.  "Honey,
I've already told you--if there's one thing you can't do it's
disappoint me."

"I'm not very experienced."

"Don't worry.  I am."  In contrast to the sexy lace at the top of her
stockings, her panties were white cotton.  The type, Quinn thought, as
he slipped a finger beneath the elastic leg band, a former would-be nun
might wear.  But hearing her soft moan as he stroked her intimately,
knowingly, he reminded himself that she'd left the convent a very long
time ago.

"You'll see, Nora," he murmured as he continued stoking the fire
between her legs.  "You'll be perfect."  Her eyes were huge as they
looked up into his.  But in them he read absolute trust.  "We'll be
perfect together."

Nora had never known her skin could be so sensitive.  Never known
desire could be so sweet and so strong at the same time.

"Quinn-" His mouth drank from hers, swallowing what she'd already
forgotten she'd been intending to say.  "I need..."  Her voice was
weak.  Slurred.  "I need..."

"I know."  And to prove he did, indeed, understand her ragged plea, he
used his thumb on the vulnerable nub hidden in her slick folds.

It was as if he'd reached into the sky, pulled down a sparkling
white-hot star and touched it against her ultra sensitive flesh.  Nora
gasped, then trembled as release shimmered through her.

"Oh," she said on a sigh, as the brilliant sensation ebbed, "that was
lovely."

"Lovely is good."  He planted a trail of lingering kisses down her
throat.  "For starters."

"Oh, I couldn't.  Not again."  Once was an event in itself.  Something
to celebrate when she could think again.

"Wanna bet?"

His grin was rife with masculine satisfaction as he began to unzip her
dress.  He wanted to rip it off her, but because he was determined to
savor, not just for her, but for himself, Quinn forced his touch to
remain slow and gentle as he lowered the zipper tooth by metal tooth.

Not surprisingly, given what he'd guessed about her upbringing, she'd
turned absolutely passive.  After he'd peeled the somber wool away, she
lay on her back again and closed her eyes, offering herself up like
some early-Christian martyr.

At any other time such lack of participation from a woman would have
irked him.  Tonight, because it was Nora, it made Quinn smile.  It also
made him all that more determined to prove to her exactly how
satisfying sex with the right partner could be.

Her bra was cotton, as well, and took only an instant to unfasten.  He
tossed it aside, where it fluttered onto a nearby chair like a white
dove.

The way he'd opened her bra with such a clever deft touch reminded Nora
yet again exactly how much more practice he'd had at this, and yet
again she fretted that she'd prove a disappointment to Quinn.  But then
his mouth was on her breast and all her worries fled, blown away by the
hot winds of desire.

"You're going to have to tell me what you like, love," he murmured as
his tongue soothed the tingling flesh.  "This first time."

"I don't know."  Her eyes remained closed, her long lashes, which he
suspected had never known mascara, looking like threads of gilt silk
against her cheeks.

"We'll take it one step at a time, then."  His tongue drew slow wet
lazy circles around her breast from the tip outward.  "Do you like
this?"

"Oh... aye."  Nora felt herself opening to him, like a flower unfolding
its petals to the warmth of the morning sun.

"Good.  let's try the other one."

His mouth, his hands, somehow managed to be both tender and rough at
the same time.  When his sucking caused a corresponding tug deep in her
womb, a warmth that spiraled outward, all the way to her fingers and
toes, needs rose again, so strong and insistent Nora thought she might
go mad with the wanting.

No longer passive, nor pliant, she strained against him in a mute
desperate plea for relief.  She would have begged, had she been capable
of coherent speech, which she wasn't, but fortunately that proved
unnecessary as he whipped off her panties and cupped her heat.

It was wonderful Terrifying.  Thrilling.  He showed her what passion
could be, found secret points of pleasure Nora had never even known
existed.

When he dug his fingers into her hips and lifted her against his mouth,
she was shocked and suffused with momentary shame, tried to close her
legs and pull away.  But Quinn was relentless, holding her tight,
feasting on her as if she were succulent ripe fruit.  Guilt proved
brief, washed away by rising desire that pounded inside her like a
tidal wave.

His tongue stabbed into her dewy feminine deft; his teeth nibbled at
tingling flesh.  Nora moaned from the ache, gasped from the forbidden
pleasure.  Her breath had clogged in her throat, and when she tried to
catch it to cry his name, she couldn't.

Just when she was certain she would surely drown in such swirling
heated depths of feeling, her body convulsed and she was swept away on
the dizzying crest of a turbulent tide.

Watching the uncensored passion move across her face, Quinn found
himself wishing that they could just stay here hidden away in this room
forever.

That idea sent shock waves ripping through him, so strong that for a
fleeting second he wondered if another bomb had gone off nearby.  He'd
never been a man to think about staying in one place, being tied down
to one woman.  He'd been emotionally on his own all of his life, and
that was the way he liked it.

But dear Lord, she was so incredibly unbelievably sweet.  Unable to
concentrate on any tomorrows when his body was so caught up in the
grips of today, after stripping off his clothes and putting on the
condom he was never without--no bastards or shotgun marriages for Quinn
Gallagher--he lowered his body over hers and felt the sizzle of hot
flesh against flesh.

"Nora."  He brushed her tousled hair back from her face.  "Look at me,
sweetheart."  He touched his lips softly to hers.  "I want to see your
eyes."  He wanted to watch the flare of passion when he took her over
the edge.

She made an inarticulate sound.  As if rousing from hypnosis, she
slowly lifted her lids, her eyes glowing like rich green meadows
shimmering beneath the sun after an afternoon rain.  She was at this
moment the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful woman he'd ever known.  And
she was his.

Quinn nearly froze at the power of the possessiveness he was feeling.
But then she smiled at him, a soft sweet smile, and it took his breath
away and clouded his mind.

He linked his fingers with hers in what was, oddly, the most intimate
gesture of the night.  Fighting the urge to thrust into her, he eased
his tip into her silky heat and felt her tense again.

"Just relax, sweetheart."  Sweat beaded his burning flesh.  Every
muscle in his body was quivering from the strain of holding himself
back.  "I promise not to hurt you."

"But you're too--"

"Shh.  It's going to be all right, Nora.  Just relax, baby--" His lips
plucked at hers, soothing, enticing, as he ruthlessly checked his
passion.  "It's going to be so good."

"Oh, aye," she breathed as her body began to adjust to accommodate
him.

"That's my girl.  Lord, you feel good, sweetheart."  He began to fill
her.  Slowly.  Inch by throbbing inch.  "You're so tight.  So warm." He
rubbed his cheek against hers.  "So wonderful."

She gasped when he plunged the rest of the way into her.  Then she
sighed, a soft shimmering breath of sheer pleasure.  With his eyes on
hers, he began to move, slowly at first, then faster, his thrusts hot
and driving.

The sounds of the traffic from the street below faded away, replaced by
the thunder of pounding hearts.  And although he couldn't understand
the Irish words Nora was whispering in his ear, her meaning, as her
hands stroked his sweat-slick back and cupped his buttocks, pulling him
deeper inside her, were all too clear.

Responding to instincts as ancient as her mystical homeland, Nora
matched his driving rhythm as he took her higher and higher, to where
the air seemed to sparkle with a diamond-bright brilliance.

Nora tumbled first, calling out his name as she flew over the edge.
Seconds later, fingers linked, his mouth on hers, Quinn took the
fall.

Magic.  As he lay on his back looking down at a sleeping Nora in the
pink, pearly predawn light, Quinn decided that was the only word that
could possibly describe the night they'd just spent together.

As good as the first time had been, the second had been even better.
Once he'd managed to overcome her initial physical shyness, she'd
turned incredibly responsive, surprising herself, he thought, with her
ability to experience passion.  Surprising him not at all with her
generosity in returning it.

It should have been enough, Quinn thought.  At least for one night.
Especially after the grueling day they'd had.  But he'd found himself
waking up sometime around four and wanting her all over again.

It had only taken the touch of his mouth on her lips to awaken her. The
touch of a palm to a breast to bring her to full arousal.  She'd been
as wet and willing as he'd been hot and hard, and Quinn knew if he
lived to be a hundred, he'd never forget the sight of her pale skin
gleaming like pearls in the moonlight as they'd rolled over the bed.

Now she was curled against him like a kitten, her fiery hair spread
across his chest.  There was none of the wanton who'd bucked like a
wild horse beneath him, no sign of the woman whose cries of pleasure
he'd captured beneath his mouth.  She looked as pure as a vestal
virgin, reminding Quinn that it had been that enticing blend of
innocence and sensuality that had attracted him to her in the first
place.

And while his first response had been sheer lust, things had changed
between them.  First had come admiration and respect.  Then affection.
And now... What?  Quinn was shaken by how appealing the fantasy of
staying right here amidst these tangled sheets with Nora for the rest
of his life was.

She murmured something inarticulate in her sleep Then smiled.  When she
pressed her mouth against his bare chest, his penis instantly
responded, hardening to granite.

The woman had him thinking foolish thoughts Impossible thoughts.  It
was only sex, he reminded himself as hunger pooled hot and heavy again
in his groin.  Friendly sex, maybe.  But that was all it was.  That was
all he would allow it to be.

As if his thoughts had infiltrated her sleeping mind, Nora's eyes
fluttered open and she smiled up at him.  "Good morning."

"Morning."  Because the warmth of that uncensored smile pulled
dangerous cords, he made his tone inappropriately gruff, and his
expression returned to its earlier scowl.

A more cautious woman would have heeded the warning.  But having shed
the last of her caution in the arms of this man, Nora refused to let
him ruin the gilt-edged pleasure that lingered from their magical night
together.

She brought her hand to his cheek, ignored the tensed muscle there and
stroked her fingers downward to circle his grimly set lips.  "You
lied."

"About what?"

"You told me not to expect pretty words.  But unless this room is
haunted, it must have been you telling me all those wonderful things
last night."  She paused, then, "Unless you didn't mean them?"

Quinn swore as he watched the anxiety chase away the joy in her lovely
eyes.  You really are a bastard.  Gallagher.  In an attempt to protect
his own heart he'd been unreasonably cruel.  He'd acted like his
son-of-a-bitch father would have undoubtedly behaved under similar
circumstances.

"Of course I did."  He dragged his hand down his face and reminded
himself he'd known from the beginning that getting involved with this
woman would prove to be trouble.  But such delicious trouble, he
considered, remembering the taste of those sweet, succulent lips.  "I'd
never lie to you, Nora.  I meant every word."  He stroked her shoulders
in a gesture meant to soothe, even as the touch of her silken skin
aroused the hell out of him.  "You were incredible.  Better than
incredible."  And because nothing had changed and he was still
eventually going to hurt her, Quinn decided he owed her the absolute
truth.  "I've never before felt the way I felt last night."

"I've never felt that way, either."  The color he'd grown far too fond
of stained her cheeks.  Cheeks that bore the faint marks of beard burn.
"I never knew I could fly, but you showed me I could."  Her smile
spread slowly, gathering him into a silver snare as she brushed a light
kiss against his mouth.  "And it was a glorious feeling."

Her body was morning warm and Nora soft.  "Talk about your glorious
feelings."  He rolled her onto her back, covered that inviting body
with his.

Laughing with feminine delight, she combed her fingers through his hair
and began to move beneath him in a way designed to kindle smoldering
sparks.

How did she do it?  He was already burning up.  Quinn was debating
whether they had time to do this right, when the shrill demand of the
phone acted like a splash of icy water.

Nora froze beneath him.  "What if it's the hospital?"  Her voice,
sultry and musical only moments earlier, was a ragged thread of
sound.

"It's probably just your father checking on what time we're meeting for
breakfast."  Biting back a curse, he reached out and grabbed the
receiver.  "Yeah... Hi, Brady."  He slanted Nora an I-told-you-so look.
"Nora?  Why would you be asking if I know where Nora is?"

Quinn experienced a twinge of pride at his newfound talent for
answering a direct question in the roundabout Irish fashion, which was,
of course, no answer at all.  He was also amused by the way Nora's face
was suffused with embarrassed color.

"She's probably in the shower," he suggested.  "That's undoubtedly why
she didn't hear the phone... Sure, I'll give her a few minutes and ring
her myself.  Then we'll meet you in the restaurant downstairs in thirty
minutes."

That settled, he hung up and grinned at her.  "Good thing videophones
are still a thing of the future."

"Don't you be teasing me, Quinn Gallagher."  Nora slid out from under
him, reaching at the same time for the blanket that had slid to the
floor sometime during their energetic night.  "My heart nearly stopped
at the idea of you talking so casually to my father while lying on top
of me naked as the day you were born."

"That bothered you?"  He arched a brow, enjoying the way she was trying
to wrap the blanket around herself as she stood beside the bed.  As if
he hadn't already seen--and tasted every inch of her luscious body.
"Fine.  Next time you can be the one on top."

She laughed at that, an explosive sound of released tension that
pleased him for having been the cause.  "Sure, and you're a bad man,
Quinn Gallagher."

Her words, meant in jest, struck a bit too close to home.  "I believe
that's what I've been trying to tell you."

The humor left her face and her eyes.  "Quinn..."

"Don't be fooled by pretty words said in the heat of passion, Nora.
There's still nothing pretty inside me."  She met his warning look with
a calm one of her own.  "You said you wouldn't lie to me, Quinn.  But
that's the biggest lie of all."  She paused, seemed on the verge of
saying something else, then apparently changed her mind.  "I'd best be
getting into that shower you told my da I was taking, if I'm to be
ready for breakfast in thirty minutes."

With that she surprised him by dropping the blanket.  Then walked out
of his bedroom with an amazing amount of dignity for someone wearing
only her pride.  This time, instead of a Celtic goddess, Nora reminded
Quinn of an Irish queen from the olden days when the Joyce clan ruled
over parts of the West.  In fact, just before she closed the connecting
door between the rooms, he almost imagined he could see a bejeweled
crown perched atop her regal head.

Chapter Eighteen

Last Night's Fun

Concerned as she was about her grandmother, Nora didn't quibble When
Quinn dropped her off at the hospital with the excuse that he had some
business to attend to and would pick her and her grandmother up in an
hour or so.  In truth, she was a bit relieved he wasn't coming to
Fionna's room with her.  She feared that were her grandmother to see
them together so soon after their passion-filled night, she'd know that
they'd been together in that intimate way.

She needed time away from him.  Time to think about what she was
feeling.  And just as important, time to figure out what to do about
what Quinn was feeling.  She knew he'd come to care for her; although
he might not be ready to say the words, the tenderness underlying his
passion had assured her she was not the only one experiencing something
unique.  Something special.  Something that felt remarkably,
wonderfully, like love.

That thought warmed the very cockles of her heart as she chatted with
Fionna, who had, predictably, been telling the entire staff about
Sister Bernadette saving so many lives--and Mrs.  Murphy, who was more
than pleased to have a new audience to hear tales of her six
grandchildren.

If Nora had been concerned about making idle conversation with Quinn on
the trip back to Castlelough after sharing such passion, she needn't
have worried.  Fionna and Brady talked all the way to the Derry
airport, on the flight to Galway and back to the farm in Quinn's
Mercedes.

Listening to Nora's grandmother relate the adventure of her near-death
experience at the hands of the bombers, Quinn realized Brady had
inherited his talent for storytelling.  Fionna may have married into
the Joyce family, but she was quite a seanachie herself.  When that
thought got him thinking about his own Gallagher roots, the familiar
pall come over his heart.  But strangely, this time it didn't feel
quite as dark.  Or as cold.

After they reached the farm, Fionna insisted that she didn't want any
special attention paid to her.  Nevertheless it was apparent that she
was definitely in her element as she sat propped against the pillows in
her oak frame bed, telling the tales again to John,

Mary, Kate and the younger children.  Nora's brother

Michael was there, too, having returned home from

Kerry as soon as Kate had contacted him about the bombing.

"It's too bad school is nearly over," Rory complained.

"And why is that, darling?"  Fionna inquired.  "Because it would be
neat if you could come tell the story to my class."

"Ah, now don't they have more important tales to be hearing than those
from an old lady?"  Fionna said with the blatant false modesty that
reminded Quinn yet again of her son.

"It's a fine tale, Mam," Brady assured her on cue.  "You'll be wanting
to tell it at The Rose as soon as you're back on your feet."

"Which will be tomorrow," Fionna insisted with a toss of her chin that
this time reminded Quinn of both her son and granddaughter.  "I'll not
be staying in this bed like some elderly invalid."

"You'll be staying in bed until Dr.  Flannery says it's all right for
you to leave it"' Nora insisted firmly.

"You're a darling girl, Nora.  But I'm more than half a century older
than you.  So you've no cause to be telling me what I can and cannot
do."

The gauntlet had been thrown down.  The air had thickened with the aura
of impending battle.

Blithely ignoring the contest of wills taking place in the cozy crowded
bedroom, Brady turned to Quinn, who was standing in the doorway.  Quinn
had been watching the scene from a distance, as if through a
plate-glass window, which was the position he'd assumed most of his
life.

"Why don't you go out to your automobile and retrieve those packages
you bought?"  Brady suggested.

"Good idea."  By the time Quinn returned, followed by Maeve, who'd come
down to the car with him, the tension in the bedroom had been replaced
by anticipation.

"You bought us gifts?"  John asked, his eyes widening at the shopping
bags of gaily wrapped packages.

"These are for the others," Quinn said.  "Yours is still Ia the car,
John.  I didn't want to cart the box all the way up here only to have
to take it back down again for unpacking."

Nora was looking at him as if he were a stranger.  "This is what your
alleged business was this morning?"

She'd seen him moving packages from the trunk of the limousine into the
Mercedes, but at the time she'd been so busy tending to Fionna she
hadn't paid any real attention.  And when she had mentioned them on the
drive home, he'd merely shrugged and said something about computer
supplies.

"Aye."  He grinned at her and handed her the first package.  "I started
out to replace your blazer that got ruined in the blast.  Then, well, I
just got a little carried away."

"I should say so," Fionna said dryly as her wren-bright eyes swept over
the bags and boxes.  "I doubt if Father Christmas has ever shown up at
this house with so many gifts."

"Oh, it's so soft!"  Nora had opened her package and was running her
palm over the lovely emerald green blazer.  She was wearing a prim
white blouse and a gray tweed skirt; Quinn watched her Slip into the
blazer and decided he'd been right.  Jewel-tone colors definitely
suited her.

"It's cashmere.  There's something else in the pocket."  Quinn told
himself that he shouldn't be so gratified by her expression of
pleasure.  But dammit, he was.

Nora drew a sharp breath as she found the small square gray velvet box.
Surely he wouldn't be buying her a ring?  Only a foolishly romantic
woman would be expecting such a gesture of eternal commitment after one
single night of pleasure.

Unfortunately, since Quinn's arrival in Castlelough, she'd discovered
she was, indeed, a foolishly romantic woman.  Her heart was pounding
like an Orangeman's drum.  Positive everyone else in the room could
hear it' especially given the way they all seemed to be holding their
breaths, she slowly opened the lid.

"Oh, they're pearls!"  Mary exclaimed as she viewed the pair of
earrings over her sister's shoulder.

"They're lovely."  Exquisite, actually.  But at the same time, not too
flamboyant to wear to town or even to church.  Nora looked up at Quinn.
"And surely far too dear."

He shrugged.  "They weren't that expensive.  Besides, they reminded me
of you."  For discretion's sake, considering that nearly her entire
family was packed into the small bedroom, Quinn didn't mention that the
pearls had made him think of the way her skin had looked in the silvery
moonlight.

"Thank you."  Her warm gaze promised a more personal expression of her
gratitude later.

Quinn handed out the rest of the gifts he'd had such a surprisingly
enjoyable time buying.  Despite the excited buzz of conversation around
him, he was having an increasingly difficult time keeping his mind off
the idea of Nora wearing only those pearls in her earlobes and her new
scent all over the rest of her, in his bed.

Reassured that Fionna was, indeed, not gravely injured, the family
gradually drifted from the room.  As Quinn left, as well, intending to
take Nora out for a drive to some distant secluded glen, Michael
stopped him outside in the hallway.

"I should be thanking you for taking care of my grandmother and
sister," he said.

If he hadn't been introduced earlier, Quinn never would have guessed
that this huge man with the weathered face and large work-roughened
hands was Brady's son.  Only his hair-unruly curls that were black as
night as opposed to Nora's and Fionna's bright red ones-suggested his
family roots.

"It was my pleasure.  And I didn't do that much."

"More than any of us could have done," Michael said, looking at Quinn
in a measuring way that he suspected big brothers had been directing
toward their kid sisters' lovers since the beginning of time.  "It
eased Nora's heart to have someone to take care of things for a change.
And for that I'm grateful."

"Again, it wasn't that big a deal."  Uncomfortable talking about the
woman he was planning to get naked with as soon as possible, Quinn
opted to change the subject.  "She said you have a farm not far from
here."

"Aye.  About sixty acres split into sections scattered here and
thereabouts.  I grow mostly oats and barley for feed, with potatoes for
sale and for the family.  Kerr's Pinks, which, unlike the more usual
Golden Wonders, don't break up after a good boil and bring a better
price at the market."  He tacked on this last with obvious pride. "This
year I put in sugar beets, as well.  And of course, there's the
peat."

"I've seen the peat bogs.  And the stacks beside the cottages and
stores.  I was hoping I'd have an opportunity to see it cut."

"As it happens, I'll be doing that this week.  If you'd like to come by
on Wednesday, you can observe the process.  Then afterward, perhaps we
can have ourselves a pint and a chat."

About Nora.  The man didn't say the words out loud, but he didn't need
to.

"I'd like that," Quinn said, not quite truthfully.

The novelist who considered everything grist for the writing mill was
looking forward to seeing the Irishman engaged in a centuries-old task.
The man who was sleeping with this muscular giant's younger sister was
not at all eager to get into a discussion about intentions.  "But I
insist on helping."

"Fine.  We begin work about dawn.  Nora will be able to give you
directions."  He put on his wool cap, tugged it almost to his calm blue
eyes, turned away and headed toward the stairs.  Quinn watched him
leave, then deciding to face this latest little problem on Wednesday,
headed down the hall to Nora's room.

Quinn wasn't surprised when, despite the gruff way he'd treated her
this morning, she immediately accepted his invitation for a drive.
After all, as Kate had pointed out and he himself had witnessed
first-hand on more than one occasion, she was not one to hold a
grudge.

"That was very sweet of you to buy everyone all those gifts," she
murmured as they drove down a winding narrow dirt lane lined on either
side with gray stone walls.  "Mary's going to look like a fairy-tale
princess in that lovely dress."

It was white tulle, studded with seed pearls and crystals that should
prove a stunning foil for her pale skin and dark hair.  "She seemed to
like it well enough," he said, enjoying the memory of the teenager's
stunned look as she'd opened the white box with the gold script from
one of Northern Ireland's most exclusive stores.

"She adores it.  And I truly believed she was going to faint when you
told her that you'd arranged for Parker Kendall to escort her to the
May dance."

Parker was an actor, a current teenage heartthrob who was playing the
part of a university student who joins forces with Shannon McGuire to
rescue the Lady's baby.

"However did you get him to agree to such a thing?"  Nora asked.

"It wasn't that difficult.  I just promised him my tickets to the
Lakers' home games."

"The Lakers?"

"A Los Angeles basketball team.  Since I moved up the coast, I'm not
using them, anyway, so it wasn't any great sacrifice."

"I see."  Nora wasn't certain, but she suspected that very little in
Los Angeles came cheaply.  "It was a remarkably kind thing to do."

"Actually I like the idea of that jerk Jack getting his comeuppance,"
Quinn countered.  "I almost wish I could be there to see it."

"The sisters sent home a note asking for volunteer chaperons.  If you
really mean that--"

"No way."  Belatedly realizing she was only teasing, Quinn chuckled.
"I've never claimed to be bucking for sainthood, sweetheart.  And
agreeing to chaperon a bunch of hormone-crazed teenagers has got to
earn bonus martyr points."

She laughed with him.  Then sobered.  "I do have one little worry."

Her father was right.  Her concern for everyone she loved was both
blessing and curse.

"What's that?"

"What if Parker Kendall proves even more dishonorable than Jack?  After
all, he is a handsome young man, and coming from California..."

She made his adopted state sound like a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.
Which, compared to the still-strict moral tenets of rural western
Ireland, it probably was.

"Don't worry.  I took care of that."

"Oh?"

"I warned him that I'd rip off a vital part of his anatomy if he so
much as touched anything he shouldn't."

"Surely he didn't believe that?"  She glanced over at him, viewed his
glowering countenance and managed a faint smile.  "I suppose he might,
after all."

"Absolutely."  Quinn's wicked grin wiped away the scowl and had Nora
smiling back.

"Rory and Jamie were wild about the outer-space toy figures.  I fear
we'll be battling aliens around the house for weeks.  And Celia's been
wanting Bridal Barbie for ages, but I had to keep telling her we
couldn't afford it."

"I figured it might replace the martyr Saint Joan."

"You knew about that?"

"Rory told me.  Actually I found it rather inspired."

"You would.  Since burning saints at the stake is probably something
you might put in one of your books," she countered easily.  "And of
course Maeve looks dashing in her new collar."  if she hadn't already
fallen in love with him, this gift alone would have made Nora tumble.

It was Kelly green plaid with a shamrock-shaped brass tab engraved with
the dog's name.  A foolish gesture, perhaps, but Quinn couldn't imagine
not taking something home for the huge wolfhound who'd become his
shadow.

"She probably would have preferred a new bone," he said.  "But there
weren't any butcher counters at Austin's Department Store."

"It was a lovely thought just the same."  Nora smiled, then slanted him
a serious look.  "You realize I should make John return his gift."

"Why?"

"Because it's far too much.  People will talk."

Quinn shrugged.  "So let them."

He figured he and Nora were probably already a major topic of
conversation in Castlelough before today.  And although he'd given up
caring what people thought about him years ago, he still had to admit
to a feeling of pride that people believed Nora was his.

"The kid's going to need a computer at college, Nora.  In America, it's
a traditional graduation present."

"Perhaps in America.  But not many Irish families can afford such a
gift."

"That's because not every family is generous enough to open their house
to a Yank who had a helluva good time buying one."  When he realized
she wasn't smiling, he tried a different tack.

"Your brother's a smart kid, Nora.  He works hard, obviously keeps his
nose to the grindstone more than most his age, and he's got an
admirable goal."

"It was after our mother died that he decided to become a doctor," she
revealed quietly.

"I kind of figured that might be the case."  Quinn knew better than
anyone how the loss of a mother could change a kid's life.  In his own
case, he'd often thought he owed a great deal of his success to working
his ass off trying to prove to the world--and himself--he wasn't
anything like his alcoholic loser parents.

"Competition to get into medical school is tough," he went on.  "Surely
you're not going to deny him every opportunity to gain an edge?"

"No.  I wouldn't want to be doing that."  She sighed as the
all-too-familiar Catholic guilt kicked in.

"You're a very persuasive man, Quinn Gallagher.  It's certainly not
difficult to believe you've Irish blood."

Although it still wasn't his favorite topic, Quinn didn't find the
topic of his heritage as threatening as usual.  He did, however, decide
it was time to change the subject.

"I'm glad you like the earrings."  He reached out and touched one with
a fingertip.

"I love them.  So much so that I'm not even going to complain again
about the cost."

"Now you're getting the idea."  He almost wished he'd also bought the
emerald ones that matched her eyes.  But, he suspected, there was only
so much this frugal farmer's daughter would accept as a gift.  "By the
way, there's another present in the back seat."

She reached around and retrieved the gold-and-white shopping bag from
the rear seat.  "Oh, my saints!"  Nora lifted the froth of black lace
and silk from its bed of tissue paper.  "I can't imagine wearing such a
revealing thing," she murmured as her fingers caressed the silk.

"Fine.  I'll just take it back, and--"

"You'll be doing no such thing!"  She hugged the teddy to her breast.
"It's stunning, Quinn.  Thank you."

"You're welcome."  She was getting better at accepting gifts and
compliments.  Which made Quinn want to keep giving both to her.  "Just
don't go getting too attached to it," he advised.  "Because believe me,
you won't be wearing it for very long."

Because she had no answer to a statement that was both promise and
threat, Nora said nothing.

Quinn placed his hand between them, next to hers.  The contrast between
his tanned flesh and her own pale skin stirred a vivid memory of how
that hand had looked against her breasts.  Breasts that had begun
aching for his touch.

She slipped her hand beneath his.

He linked their fingers together.

And, as foolish as some might find it, Nora thought she'd swoon from
the pleasure of such a simple touch.

After a while he turned onto an even narrower road, which led to a
secluded glen that bordered a small lake, and cut the engine.  It had
begun to rain, draping the car in a slanting gray curtain.

"How did you know about this place?"  she asked.

"Hey, scouting out a place to park with your girl is an old American
tradition."

He'd called her his girl.  Joy sang through Nora's veins as he turned
toward her.  Closing her eyes, she lifted her face and waited to be
swept away.

The touch of his mouth on hers was feather-light and utterly sweet. His
lips brushed hers once, twice, then a third time, tasting, teasing,
tantalizing.

"I've been going crazy all day," he murmured, "remembering your taste."
He nipped the side of her neck, then soothed with the tip of his tongue
where he had bitten.  "Remembering how perfect you felt in my arms. 
How perfectly I fit inside you."

Her bones were turning to water.  She could barely lift her hand to his
cheek.  "I've been remembering that, too," she whispered, her
fingertips trailing down the side of his face as if she was memorizing
his features by touch.  When he caught hold of her hand and pressed his
open mouth to the inside of her wrist, her blood began to heat in her
veins.

He ducked his head again.  This time his mouth took hers in a sumptuous
heated kiss that turned everything to soft-focused slow motion.  It
could have lasted minutes, hours or an eternity.  Time seemed suspended
as Nora's entire world narrowed down to Quinn's thrilling lips.

She felt drunk.  Drunk with desire, dizzy with need.  He'd spent the
long and wondrous night teaching her the magic a man and woman could
make together, and now she was going to wield it like Merlin's sword,
using its power to make him as crazy as he'd made her.

She turned in his arms, and as her avid lips and agile hands moved over
him, Quinn realized that somehow, when he hadn't been looking, last
night's eager student had become the master.  Need rose like a wild
beast inside him, snarling, snapping, clawing for freedom.

"My God, Nora..."  He reached for her, but she was faster, pulling his
cotton sweater over his head, somehow managing to keep just out of
touch in the close confines of the car.  She shrugged out of the new
blazer and tossed it into the back seat.

"Not yet."  She laughed, a deep throaty sound that could have come from
one of her pagan ancestors out to seduce a king.  Needing to touch, to
taste, he began ripping off her clothes, even as she tore at his.

"It's my turn," she murmured as her tongue teased a dark nipple,
causing Quinn to groan.  Her lips skimmed down his taut belly and he
had to bite back the sharp curse.  "You made love to me all night.  Now
I want to make love to you."

His breath clogged in his lungs, and his heart battered against his rib
cage so painfully Quinn wondered if he was about to have a heart
attack.  When her hungry lips moved even lower and she took him into
her mouth, Quinn decided that if he did die at this moment, it'd be
worth it.

"I want to be inside you."  He reached blindly for his jeans, but
reading his intention, she plucked them from the floor of the car and
took the foil package from the front pocket.

"Is this what you're looking for?"  Her smile was seductive as hell,
giving Quinn a very good idea of how Eve must have looked when she was
holding that bright red apple just out of Adam's reach.

"Nora..."  The warning growl reverberated from deep in his throat.

Appearing blithely un threatened she tore the package open, then slowly
smoothed the condom over his stone-hard erection as he'd taught her
last night, protecting them both.

Just when he thought for certain he was going to embarrass the hell out
of himself by exploding beneath her erotic touch, Nora lowered herself
onto him.

The feel of her, tight and hot and slick, was all it took for the
animal in him to burst free.  Quinn could practically hear the chain
snap as she began riding him like a woman possessed.

Last night her flesh had gleamed like pearls.  Now, bathed in the faint
glow of the sunset valiantly shimmering through the gray mist, her skin
appeared golden, as if she were a goddess, created by a master
alchemist.

Grabbing hold of her waist, he dug his fingers into that damp glowing
skin and surged upward into her.  He watched her as they moved
together, counting her orgasms, reveling in the range of emotions that
moved across her flushed face in waves.  Quinn loved the way she could
feel so much.  Loved that he was the one who made her feel it.

He'd already passed last night's personal best when she stiffened,
shuddered, then collapsed against him as every inch of her body began
to tremble.

Only then did Quinn surrender fully to the beast.  With one last mighty
surge, he gave in to his own mind-blinding release.

Chapter Nineteen

Moving Hearts

The rain had stopped, revealing a line of purple dusk stealing its way
across the reed-rimmed lake.  A planet burned on the horizon; the first
stars appeared.  Although vaguely aware of the possibility of discovery
by some evening fisherman, neither Nora nor Quinn were in any hurry to
move.

As she slowly recovered, Nora touched her mouth to his chest in a soft
tender kiss.  "I love you."  It was barely a whisper, but Quinn had no
trouble hearing it in the hushed stillness.  The words reverberated
around the car and inside his head like bullets, as if she'd just fired
a very lethal gun.

"Nora..."  He ran his hand down her hair.  "I don't know what to
say."

She lifted her head, her eyes warm and a little sad.  For a fleeting
instant he thought he detected a bit of pity in those rich green
depths.  "You don't have to say anything.  I didn't tell you so you'd
feel obliged to say the words back to me, Quinn.  Love isn't something
you can plan.  Or demand in return.  It just is."

She lifted a hand and smoothed the lines carving canyons between his
dark eyes.  "It's a gift"' she said soothingly.  "Like the ones you
bought for all of us in Derry.  Since I couldn't possibly afford
anything so fine, I'm giving you one of the only things I have of any
value."

Her heart.  Her goddamn warm, generous, loving heart.

"What if I don't want it?"  He told himself that his deliberate
gruffness was for her sake, not his.

He braced himself for tears and was surprised when she laughed,
instead.  "It's too late."  She touched her smiling lips to his tightly
set ones.  "I've already given it away.  Even in America it must be
considered bad manners to return a gift of the heart."

"Nothing's changed," he warned.

Nora didn't answer.  There was, after all, Quinn thought grimly as they
dressed, no need.  Because they both knew that was a lie.  The biggest
he'd ever told.

Trying to brush her tangled hair into some semblance of order, she
looked into the rearview mirror.  When she saw the flush in her cheeks,
the edgy excitement in her eyes, and her swollen lips, Nora was certain
that her entire family would know exactly what she and Quinn had been
doing.

And amazingly she didn't care.

"Does this mean you've changed your mind?"  she asked as he turned the
key and put the car into gear.

"About what?"

"About taking that lovely bit of black lingerie off me tonight."

That provocative question was all it took to make Quinn hard again.
Wondering if perhaps Kate wasn't the only witch in the family, Quinn
shook his head.

"You might be able to make me crazy, sweetheart, but I'm not stupid.
Besides, I still have places I want to take you."

Because he needed to touch her again, to make contact, no matter how
slight, he reached out, took her hand and squeezed.  The crooked grin
he slanted her as they drove away from the lake revealed all of the
rich affection he was feeling for her and none of the turmoil.

"Magic places."

* * *

A visitor can't travel to the west of Ireland without being aware of
peat.  During his weeks in Castlelough, Quinn had seldom been out of
sight or smell of it.  He'd drive past the straight black banks cut
into the green hills, the piles of neatly stacked sods leaning against
stone walls.  Slabs of black buttery peat were piled up beside every
house, cottage and shop, drying for use as insulation and fuel for the
hearths.

"We've good peat in our bog," Nora's older brother assured Quinn as he
led him across the hills toward the black field overlooking the sea.
Michael was wearing an unbleached Aran sweater, a thick pair of
handwoven tweed trousers and boots.  Since Quinn had no idea what one
wore to go peat-cutting, he'd opted for jeans and a black Oakland
Raiders sweatshirt.  Fortunately Michael had supplied him with boots.

Maeve loped on ahead of the two men, happily flushing out rabbits in
the field.  The dog had been waiting at the foot of the stairs for him
this morning, wagging her tail, eagerly awaiting further developments.
Since Rory would be at school all day, Quinn didn't have the heart to
leave the eager wolfhound at home.

"A week's worth of cutting should last the family through the coming
winter," Michael said with satisfaction.  "The peat's three to four
meters deep in most places."

"And steep," Quinn observed as he looked a very long way down to a
narrow beach where a trio of fisherman in yellow oilskins were hauling
their curraghs down to the water.

"Aye.  And that's a strange thing.  It used to be that such steep cliff
land wasn't thought to be good for all that much.  Farmers value the
flat fields for grazing, you see.  But that was back in the days when a
man could only get land by inheriting it or marrying into it."

"And now?"

"And now, because of all the blow-ins--Yanks and Europeans who dream of
a country life without having any idea what it's like to live on a
farm--the steep land is becoming worth more than the flat.  For the
view, don't you know."

His dry tone suggested he considered such blow-ins, as the Irish tended
to call anyone who couldn't trace their ancestry back at least two
centuries, "eejits."

"It is a terrific view," Quinn held his breath as Maeve planted her
huge paws on the very edge of the cliff and began barking at wheeling
sea gulls.

"That's true enough.  And at least there are some who appreciate it.
Which makes them who actually move here better than our own city
people, who are buying up the farmland for investment but would never
set foot on it themselves.  Men who couldn't grow a single potato in a
tub of manure."

* "I suppose speculators grabbing up land has been going on forever,"
Quinn suggested.  "Back home everyone's concerned about the farmers
being forced off the land by big conglomerates and economics."

"I've been reading about your farmers.  I'm especially interested in
their modern milking methods.  And Nora's thinking about joining the
cheese guild.  I've also met a few who come to the country tracking
down their family roots.  Farming's never been easy.  Too much depends
on luck, Mother Nature and

God's whims.  But I've lived in the city, and now,

like the wayward prodigal son, I've returned home.  I won't be leaving
again.  This is the only life I want."

Quinn thought about Yeats describing the country people of Ireland as
passionate and simple.  Passionate, Michael Joyce was.  About his land
and, Quinn knew, his family.  He also suspected, that like the rest of
his family, the man wasn't nearly as simple as he first appeared.

Michael took off his cap and combed his fingers through his curly black
hair as he looked over the fields.  "People around here think of land
as something they belong to.  Not the other way around."

"People such as Nora, you mean."  Quinn decided there was no point in
beating around the bush.

"Aye."  Her brother gave him a warning look.  His blue eyes turned
crystal hard.  "I care for my sister, Mr.  Gallagher.  A great deal."

"Call me Quinn.  And we have that in common."

"I also can't see her being happy living in Hollywood."

"Actually I live in Monterey, which is on the California coast south of
San Francisco," Quinn corrected mildly.  "But I get your point.  And
that's another thing we agree on."

"So you'll not be asking her to leave Castlelough with you when you
go?"

"No."  This was one of the few things--the only thing--Quinn was very
sure about where Nora was concerned.

Although Quinn wasn't certain Michael was totally happy with that
answer--since they both knew that either way she was going to be
hurt--he appeared to be satisfied.  Or, more likely, Quinn thought,
he'd just as soon drop the personal conversation.  Nora's brother
seemed less gregarious than Fionna, Brady or even John, a man more
comfortable working with his hoes and cows than discussing family
matters with a stranger.  Quinn couldn't blame him.

They set to work, cutting through the black peat with wing tipped
spades, which Michael informed

Quinn were called slanes.

"You have to cut the steps," he explained, demonstrating by cutting a
trio of steps in the peat.  "Tradition has it that Saint Columba got
tripped in a bog hole one day and was so furious he laid a curse on all
those who didn't cut three steps so he could get out."

"Do you believe that?"

"Now, I can't say whether I do or not," Michael mused, rubbing his
chin.  "But there's no harm in cutting them just the same."

Although cutting the turf proved easy, considering it had the
consistency of butter, the lifting of the sods, which each weighed
about twenty pounds and was rough as sandpaper, proved to be hard back
straining work.  And although he'd put away a huge breakfast of scones,
black pudding, bacon, fried potatoes, smoked salmon and scrambled eggs,
by the time the sun was directly overhead, Quinn was starving.  He was
also extremely grateful for the brown bread, cheese and meat pie Nora
had insisted he take along in Rory's knapsack, despite his arguments
that after that herculean breakfast, he wouldn't be able to eat again
for a week.

They stopped for lunch and sat enjoying the view--miles of beach to one
side and blue-tinged mountains to the other, the stuttering golden sun,
dew on the grass, even a rainbow to add a perfect touch.  Back home in
California, developers would probably be willing to commit murder for
the opportunity to put a resort and glass-walled restaurant on the
site.

The ancient romance he'd found to be part of the country lingered in
the wisps of fog floating past like silent ghosts.  Down below,
children were climbing over rocks on the shore.

"They're gathering seaweed," Michael said when Quinn pointed them out.
"Probably to fertilize their family plots.  Those roped-off places are
mussel farms.  The fishermen dangle their ropes into the water, and at
the end of the summer, they pull them up and the mussels will be
clinging to the ropes, just waiting to be thrown into the pot."  He
glanced at Quinn.  "It's a shame you won't be here in August.
Castlelough puts on quite a mussel fair."

"I'm sorry I'll miss it," Quinn answered, surprised that it was the
truth.

"It's a fine time.  There's traditional music and storytelling, and
free tastings on the street.  Mussels are evil-looking things, but they
taste good served up with butter and lemon.  Nora uses garlic."  He
grinned.  "Gran complains it's not traditional, but I've noticed she
always manages to eat her share."

"Your sister's a great cook."

"She is that.  There aren't very many good places for tourists used to
fancier fare to eat around here, so Brady's been after her to open a
bed and breakfast after John goes off to university.  But of course the
farm takes up a great deal of her time, so she's been putting him
off."

Returning from her morning of chasing rabbits, Maeve sat down on her
haunches beside Quinn, cocked an expectant ear and whined.  He tossed
her a piece of cheese and watched as she snapped it up in midair,
swallowing it in one gulp.

Nearby, mangy donkeys climbed over rocks and sheep hung picturesquely
from the cliffs.  "You'd think they'd fall off," Quinn said.

"Oh, that's been known to happen," Michael allowed.  "Just last fall
one of my best ewes leaned too far over the edge to reach a bit of
grass and tumbled down onto the rocks and was washed away.  Sheep," he
said dryly, "are not the most intelligent of animals."

They continued eating in companionable male silence broken only by the
caw of a raven, the cry of gulls, lowing of cows and the distant
bleating of sheep.

"I know a man in Connemara--Patrick Gallagher," Michael divulged.  "His
mother has a book with the names of all the family members who
emigrated over the years.  Perhaps, if you'd like--"

"I don't think so."  Quinn cut him off in the same way he had Fionna,
when the elderly lady had first suggested he might have family in
Donegal.  "Gallagher's a common enough name.  It doesn't necessarily
follow that we'd be related."

"Well, you have a point."  Michael gave him a thoughtful study as he
drank his tea from an insulated cup.  "However, you have the look of
him.  The two of you could be brothers."

Quinn was vaguely interested in spite of himself.  "I suppose he's a
farmer, too?"

"Aye.  A bit of a one.  Connemara's hard scrabble land, not as
productive as this," he said with a wave of his hand over the emerald
and black fields.  "So, his family has always supplemented their income
by distilling poi ting

"Figures I'd have relatives who're bootleggers," Quinn muttered.

"It's a fine traditional occupation," Michael corrected him.  "And one
of the few true examples of Irish entrepreneurial spirit."

"It's also illegal."

"For the most part, although now hasn't the government licensed some
for selling to tourists in the duty-free shops?"

"I've tasted Kentucky moonshine."  Quinn paused to throw Maeve another
piece of cheese, which she wolfed down.  "White Lightning, they call
it."  He didn't think he'd ever forget the burn going down.

"That's well named.  John L. O'Sullivan called our poi ting a
torchlight procession down your throat," Michael said approvingly. 
"The best-like that the Gallaghers are known to make can warm up the
insides of a man like a peat fire on a cold December day.  The worst--"
he shook his head "--could stiffen a tinker."

"Don't they get raided?"

"From time to time.  But mostly the Garda turn a blind eye since they
have so many relatives in the business themselves.  And even when they
do hold their raids for the newspapers, the word has usually already
gotten out, so they don't manage to catch many people."  He pointed to
a small green speck out in the ocean.  "See that island?"

"Barely."

"It's where some lads from Dublin once tried growing marijuana.  It
took the Garda so long to blow up their rubber raft, the growers had
time to row out around to the back of the island, harvest their crop
and get away."

Quinn laughed as he was supposed to.  He decided that Michael Joyce had
inherited some of his father's storytelling talent, after all.

After loading the turf into the cart, they took it back to the farm,
where they stacked the rectangular sods into small pyramids designed to
catch the wind, which would speed the drying.

"We did a good day's work," Michael said.  "We probably cut a ton."  He
gave Quinn an appraising look that suggested he was thinking he might
have misjudged the rich Yank's capacity for hard physical work. "You'll
sleep tonight," he predicted.

"If I don't die first," Quinn said on a laugh as he rubbed his sore
back.

"Poor man."  Nora's smile was both teasing and sympathetic at the same
time.  She was straddling his hips, her palms massaging his aching
back.  Everyone else had gone to sleep, and the house was as still as
midnight.  "I should have told Michael to go easy on you."

"And have him telling everyone in The Rose that the Yank is a wimp?  No
way," Quinn muttered as her clever fingers worked on getting the kinks
out of his left shoulder.  "Lord, that feels good."

"I'm glad."  She moved downward, pressing along either side of his
spine.  "Cutting peat's miserable work.  I'm surprised you could stay
awake through dinner."

So was he.  Quinn decided not to admit that there'd been more than one
time when he'd found his lids growing heavy and had feared falling face
first into his bowl of chowder.

"I had an incentive."

"Oh?"  The soothing hands were at his waist.  "And what would that have
been?"

Her voice had turned saucy, her hands, as they moved even lower,
anything but soothing.

"You."  He rolled over, taking her with him.  "I kept thinking of you
wearing this."  He ran his palms over the cobweb-thin lace that barely
covered her breasts and watched with pleasure as her nipples
hardened.

Experiencing a miraculous renewal of energy, he snagged a satin ribbon
strap with his teeth and lowered it off one fair shoulder.

"Quinn."  Her soft sigh of pleasure as his lips skimmed over the
fragrant white skin belied the objection he suspected she'd intended.
"You've had a long day and you have to be at the lake tomorrow for the
filming."

"They'll never miss me if I'm late."

In the beginning the idea that he was superfluous had irked him.  He'd
always known that writers were not exactly at the top of the Hollywood
hierarchy, and the past weeks watching his objections get overruled and
the actors, even Laura, objecting to lines of dialogue had pricked his
ego.

But since his time in Ireland was running out, Quinn was more than
willing to surrender the reins of control fully to Jeremy Converse in
order to spend every possible moment with Nora.  Take the money and
run, his agent had always said.  As usual she'd been right.

"But surely you're too tired--" Her voice was smothered by his mouth as
he kissed her.

He slipped the other shoulder ribbon down.  The top of the teddy was
now clinging precariously to the tips of her breasts.  It would take
only the slightest nudge to send it the rest of the way.

"The day I'm too tired to make love to you, sweetheart, is the day
you'd better have Castlelough's undertaker start measuring me for a
casket."

That said, he trailed a lazy finger down her breast and sent the lace
skimming to her waist.  Another quick flick of the wrist and he'd
unfastened the snaps between her legs.

Then, as the moon rose over the velvet meadows, Quinn slid gloriously
into her.

Ever since Sister Mary Francis had read the story of Christ curing the
leper to the first-form class at Holy Child School, Rory had become
obsessed with lepers.  He'd sit in the chapel during Benediction at the
end of the day, and while the other kids squirmed in their seats and
risked being cuffed in the back of the head by one of the nuns, Rory
would stare up at the stained-glass window depicting the miraculous
event and think how terrible it would be to be a leper.

The dread stayed with him during the father-and-son trek, billowing in
his mind like a turf-fire spark escaping a chimney and blazing through
a thatched roof.  Even the relief he felt when he discovered that
Jamie's da was still in Dungarven--which meant that he wouldn't be here
getting drunk and mean and spoiling things--or the pleasure in showing
off the

American to his mates could not warm the chill that had wrapped its icy
fingers around his heart.

The trekkers had been equipped with the appropriate equipment courtesy
of a generous donation from Father O'Malley's wealthy brother Brendan,
who owned a sports-equipment store in Waterford that sold everything
from hurling bats and balls--sliothars--to fishing tackle.  The pup
tents he supplied were large enough for a single man, or two small
boys, which is how Rory came to be sharing one with his cousin.

"Jamie, you must look at this," he hissed, grabbing his cousin's anti.
Rory was sitting in the tent after the supper and singing, staring at
his lobster-red face in the compact mirror his mother had sent along,
insisting he'd need it to brush his hair on Sunday morning.

"Look at what?"  Jamie said sulkily.

He'd been in a sour mood the entire trek.  Although it was nice to see
Mam smiling again, and he understood it was because Da wasn't around
yelling and punching walls with his huge meaty fists, it was
embarrassing that he ended up the only boy in the class without a
father, or someone to act as a father, on the trek.  Even Daniel
O'Kelley's father, who was a deacon and had never missed a morning mass
for as long as anyone in Castlelough could remember, had come along for
the adventure.

"I've got it!"  Rory said.  "See?"

"Got what?"

"The leprosy."  Rory pointed the torch up at his face, giving him the
threatening look of a devil.  Or perhaps an evil sorcerer.

"People in Ireland don't get the leprosy."

"Perhaps that's because we're not told about them," Rory suggested.
"Perhaps they're sent away to leper colonies before anyone can learn
about It."  He picked at the loose skin.  "See?"

"That's sunburn, you daft eejit.  Your face saw too much of the sun
today, that's all."

"But it always begins with the nose."  Rory wiggled his own nose, which
felt less rigidly attached to his face than usual.  "First the peeling.
Then before you know it your nose falls off.  And your fingertips, as
well."  He held up his hand palm inward in front of him, looking for
signs of decay.

"It's sunburn," Jamie repeated.  "Now will ya turn off that bloody
light and shut up so I can be getting to sleep?"

Within minutes the soft snores coming from the other sleeping bag told
Rory that Jamie was sleeping soundly.  But Rory lay awake long into the
night, moving his hand to his nose every few minutes, checking.
Worrying.

He kept picturing the chapel window, and the statue of the Virgin Mary
who stood guard over the playground at school.  The statue that showed
her bare toes peeking out from beneath her blue robe and her horribly
chipped nose.  Although Rory knew the damage had been done when Tommy
Doyle had accidentally hit the statue with the ball during an energetic
hurling match, for the last week, every time he'd looked at that
statue, all Rory could think about was that was what leprosy looked
like.

He lifted his hand to his nose--just to check--and screamed when it
came off in his hand.  A hand that was dripping off him like wet
seaweed.  He shook it, shocked as he watched two fingers go flying. The
sound of laughter behind him had him whirling around, and he was
suddenly face-to-face with hundreds of rag-clad people, men, women,
children--it was impossible to tell which, since all their features
were oozing down their faces like custard that had yet to set.

They were laughing and pointing their leprosy-torn fingers, and when he
tried to run away, they took off after him, their rags and their putrid
flesh flapping.

He didn't wake up until he was out of the tent, standing in the
darkness beneath the razor-edged shining slice of a moon, his chest
heaving, the pajamas his mother had insisted he wear soaked with
sweat.

He moved as quietly as he could to the tent nearest his, slid open the
zippered front and slipped inside.  "Mr.  Gallagher?"

Quinn had always been a light sleeper.  Probably, he'd once thought,
because for the first seven years of his life he'd never experienced a
night when his parents' fights hadn't kept him awake.  He'd also
learned to wake up fast in order to have half a chance to escape his
father's brutal fists.  That was why the faint whisper instantly jerked
him from the erotic dream in which he'd been making love to Nora.

"Rory?"  He blinked, focusing on the small form huddled beside his
sleeping bag.

"I had a dream that lepers were chasing me."

"Leopards?"  Quinn wondered if Rory knew how fortunate he was that his
nightmares were born of fiction.  "Don't worry, kid, there aren't any
leopards in Ireland."  Understanding night fears all too well, he
unzipped the bag, folding it back.  "But it's damn cold out tonight.
Why don't you climb in with me for a while?"

Rory didn't need a second invitation.  "Not leopards," he said, his
voice a bit steadier.  "Lepers."

A bit of fright from the nightmare lingered, like fog not yet burned
off.  But as he cuddled closer, Rory felt comforted.  It was good to
have Quinn in his life.  Almost like having a da.

That thought was the last to slip through his mind before he drifted
off to sleep.

Lepers.  Jesus Christ, what had put that thought in the kid's mind?
Looking down at this small imaginative boy Nora had carried in her
womb, Quinn realized it felt good to have Rory here with him.  It was
almost, he thought, like having a son.

That idea gave birth to another stir of something that felt
frighteningly like love.  And as Rory slept the sleep of innocents, it
was Quinn who now found sleep an impossible target.

Chapter Twenty

The Mills Are Grinding

As Nora had feared and Quinn had expected, their budding love affair
quickly became grist for Castlelough's eager gossip mills.

Except for those times he'd spent with Brady at The Rose, when his
enjoyment of the old man's company and tall tales allowed him to lower
the barricades a bit, Quinn's aloof aura had kept most of the other
Castlelough residents at a distance.  Being linked with Nora, who was
obviously much beloved in the village, had changed all that.

Farmers driving their milk and cream to the dairy waved greetings to
him as he drove from the farm to the lake each morning, as did the
housewives hanging their sheets out to dry in the fragrant spring
air.

The Irish members of the crew all seemed more friendlier than usual.
One of them, a caterer brought in from Kinsale in County Cork to
provide lunches for the cast and crew, had even admitted to having a
roaring crush on Nora in high school.

"But her heart belonged to Devlin Monohan back in those days."  There'd
been an air of lingering regret in the handsome young man's voice.
"It's a lucky man you are, Quinn Gallagher," he said, telling Quinn
nothing he hadn't already figured out for himself.

As soon as class got out in the afternoon, Rory and Jamie would arrive
on location, each day bringing more and more of their schoolmates with
them until the wardrobe mistress had laughingly dubbed Quinn the Pied
Piper of Castlelough.  There'd been a time when no one, with the
possible exception of Laura, would have so openly teased him.  But then
again, Quinn was forced to admit as he laughed along with the others,
that was before the trip to Ireland.  Before Nora.

He was sitting on a moss-covered rock--eschewing the canvas chair with
his name stenciled on it that he'd always found pretentious--revising
some dialogue for the afternoon's shooting, when a tall reed-slender
man in a black cassock came walking toward him.  He recognized the
parish priest, Father O'Malley.

Quinn's only experience with Catholicism was when he'd turned fourteen
and been placed in a Catholic home for nine months.  The man and woman
had been nice enough, he supposed, albeit harried from trying to
control eight children--three of them adopted and the others fosters
like him--under the age of sixteen.  All the children of school age had
received a parochial education with nuns and priests who'd possessed a
flair for discipline and a taste for corporal punishment.

"Good day to you," the priest greeted Quinn easily.

"Afternoon, Father," Quinn responded.

Appearing oblivious to the coolness in Quinn's tone, the priest sat
down on a nearby rock.  "I've been meaning to get out here to see what
all the excitement's about," Father O'Malley said, looking around at
the commotion with interest.  "But the May day celebrations have been
taking up a great deal of my time."

"I imagine it's a tricky balance, juggling the Church's celebration of
the Madonna with a day lifted from Celtic mythology."

"Ireland has always required a balance of beliefs."  The priest ignored
Quinn's sarcasm.  "Didn't Saint Patrick understand that all too well?
You, yourself, in coming down to this lake today, had to pass by a
burial site thousands of years old, and right in our view are the
stones of a castle dating back to Norman times.  It's impossible to
walk anywhere in this beautiful tragic country without stumbling over
tangible reminders of our overlapping layers of human history and
belief.  A wise man keeps that in mind."

Although the priest's tone had remained mild, Quinn felt sufficiently
chastised.  "Touche," he murmured, looking at the brooding dark castle
ruins.  "That's a very pragmatic view.  Do you also believe in the
Lady?"

The priest's eyes drifted past the crowds of villagers, beyond the
crew, to the glassy blue water.  "I believe in the Immaculate
Conception, the virgin birth, the Resurrection, the Holy Spirit and
myriad other mystical unseen things.  I also believe in dinosaurs, the
Ice Age, the Milky Way and life on far-off planets.  That being the
case, I wouldn't be one to say that the Lady couldn't exist."

It was as typical a roundabout Irish answer as Quinn had heard since
his arrival.  He laughed and felt himself relaxing.  Something he
seemed to be doing more and more often.

"As much as I've been curious about the filming, it's you I really came
here to see," the priest divulged.

"Oh?"  Quinn braced himself for a lecture about his lust having put
Nora's immortal soul at risk.

"I've been wanting to thank you for taking Rory Fitzpatrick on the
father-and-son trek.  It was a kind and generous thing to do."

Quinn shrugged, uncomfortable as ever with a compliment that was at
such odds with how he'd always seen himself.  "I had a good time.  It
wasn't any big deal."

"Ah, but it was to Rory.  And to Jamie O'Sullivan, who has himself his
own cross to bear, I fear."

Quinn was even more uncomfortable discussing people whose lives had
nothing to do with his own.

At least that was what he kept telling himself.  With lessening degrees
of success.

"Kate O'Sullivan should leave her husband Quinn said.  "While she still
can."

The priest sighed.  His eyes were touched with sadness.  And the same
frustration Quinn was himself.  "I pray every night that God will give
her the strength to do what she must to keep herself and her family
safe."

His gaze drifted over the lake again.  "I see you've gotten John and
Mary work on the film."

"Just as extras, after school."  Since she'd scraped the heavy makeup
off her face, Nora's sister had, as he'd suspected, turned out to be a
beauty.  And although thus far Mary had only appeared in group scenes,
the camera loved her in a way that had made her pale poet's face jump
out of the crowd.

Watching the dailies last night, an uncharacteristically excited and
optimistic Jeremy had immediately decided to give her more scenes this
afternoon, making Quinn wonder if the attention would cause the
teenager to give up her plans to become a teacher and pursue acting,
instead, and if so, if Nora would blame him.  He also decided to have
another little warning chat with Parker Kendall about keeping his hands
off the middle Joyce daughter.

"They seem to be enjoying themselves immensely," the priest said.  "And
of course the attention has to be beneficial to dear Mary.  Especially
after what Jack Doyle's been putting her through this past month."  It
seemed there was little in Castle lOUgh that escaped Father O'Malley's
sharp eye.

Quinn was wondering if the priest had finally worked his way around to
the subject of Nora when he suddenly stood and brushed off his black
cassock.  "Well, I have a meeting with the ladies' guild about the
maypole, of all things.  There seems to be some dissension among the
ranks concerning the colors of the ribbons and the flowers for the May
crown.  I've been called in to cast the tie-breaking vote."

"I don't envy you that, Father."

"I have my own trepidations, as well.  Any prayers for my surviving the
meeting unscathed would be welcome."  His blue eyes twinkled as he held
out his hand.  "I've enjoyed our chat, Mr.  Gallagher.  Perhaps we'll
be seeing you at mass with the family one of these fine mornings before
you leave Castlelough."

"I've enjoyed talking with you, too, Father," Quinn said.  He did not
add that if the priest was waiting for him to show up inside a church,
he'd definitely learn the meaning of eternity.

"Well, well," Quinn heard the familiar female voice behind him drawl
after O'Malley left.  "Surely that couldn't have been Quinn Gallagher I
saw passing the time of day with a man of the cloth."

"He was curious."  Quinn refused to rise to his former lover's teasing
challenge.  "About the filming."

"Well, he's certainly not alone there."  Laura's eyes skimmed the
surrounding hillsides.  "The crowd gets bigger every day.  It's a
wonder anything is getting done in the village."

"It's not every day the circus comes to town."

One of his few pleasant childhood memories was when Clyde Beatty had
brought his growling lions and roaring tigers to Duasmuir, California.
Quinn had gotten up before daybreak to go down to the railroad yards to
watch the circus crew unload the animals from the boxcars.  Later that
day he'd managed to sneak into the tent to see the dazzling show.

"Especially this village.  Why, there are times I feel as if I'm in the
cast of Brigadoon.  I doubt if it's changed all that much in two
hundred years."

"Change isn't always for the best."

She patted his cheek.  "Watch out, darling.  If you're not careful,
pretty soon you'll find yourself trading in your computer for a milking
machine."

"That's ridiculous."

"Not as ridiculous as the crew taking bets on whether or not you'll be
on the plane with us back to the States."

"I'll give you a tip," he all but growled, irritated yet again that his
private life was providing so much fodder for public consumption.  "Put
your money on me sticking to the original itinerary.  The day after
this film wraps, I'm out of here.  On my way home."

Even as he said the words, Quinn found himself wondering why the idea
of leaving Castlelough--and Nora held scant appeal.

Part of the reason was, of course, that he didn't have a home.  Just a
house.  And a leased house at that.  There wasn't a single person or
thing, not even a cat or parakeet, waiting for him to return from
Ireland.

But since arriving at the Joyce farm, for the first time in his life he
had something that had begun to feel a lot like family.  Something
that, whenever he thought about it, scared him to death.  Because he
wasn't the family type.  How could he be, coming from what he did?  he
asked himself silently as Laura sashayed back down to the lake to shoot
a pivotal scene with Kendall.

Later that evening he and Nora were finally alone again, parked beside
the little nameless lake in what Quinn had come to think of as their
own private place.  Even though he told himself that he was getting too
damn old to be making love in the back seat of a car like some horny
teenager, he understood her reluctance to make love to him under the
same roof as her family.  It would be different if they were married.
But since that was out of the question, this was the only solution.

"Lord, I'd love to spend the night with you again."  He was holding her
on his lap, nuzzling her neck.  In the pale silvery moonlight, her skin
appeared as white as swan feathers.

"I know."  She turned her head and kissed him on the mouth.  "And I'd
like that, as well, but--"

"It's okay."  It wasn't her fault that the fever he'd felt for her from
the beginning hadn't burned off.  That the more of her he had, the more
he wanted.  "I didn't want to make you feel guilty."

She laughed at that.  A light musical sound he knew he'd still be able
to hear in his head when he was a hundred.  "Ah, but isn't that what we
Catholics do best?"  she asked, punctuating her self-deprecating words
with quick sweet kisses.  "Feel guilty?"

"Speaking of Catholics, I had a little chat today with Father
O'Malley," Quinn said with more casualness than he felt.

"Oh?"  She tilted her head back and looked up at him.  "Was it about
us?"

"No."  He ran a soothing hand down her back.  "I think he just dropped
by to see the filming."  He did not mention the priest's comment about
Rory.  And not wanting to spoil a lovely spring night, he didn't bring
up Kate's problem, either.  "But it got me thinking..."  He combed his
hands through her hair, pulling it back from her face.  "Does what we
do bother you?  Do you feel guilty about being with me this way?"

"Of course not," she said promptly.

"Yet you refuse to let me make love to you in your bed.  Where we could
wake up in each other's arms."

Nora took heart from the fact that he'd used the L-word.  Perhaps not
in the context she wished for.  But at least he was no longer referring
to what they did as just sex.

"I'm not ashamed of what I feel for you, Quinn.  Nor of how I share my
love for you."  Having already admitted to loving him, Nora refused to
back away from the word, even if it was obvious it still made him
uncomfortable.  "But John and Mary are at a dangerous age.  I don't
want to set the wrong example."

She'd turned so damn earnest he wanted to kiss her again.  And that was
just for starters.  "You know they don't believe that we're running
into the village every night for ice cream," he said.

"I know.  But what they suspect and what they know are two different
things.  And although I admit that makes me a bit of a hypocrite, I can
remember being that age well enough to know that I wouldn't have
understood the difference for what I was feeling for Devlin back then
to what you and I have now."

It was the second time today he'd had Devlin Monohan tossed up at him.
And it was two times too many.  Disliking the way just hearing the
man's name could make him jealous, Quinn decided it was time to change
the subject.

"Did Kate tell you about our plans for tomorrow?"

"No.  She's been so busy getting ready for the horse sale at Clifden,
we haven't had time for a proper sit-down talk."

"I thought I'd tag along with Brady."

"To Clifden?  Why?"

"I'd like to see Connemara.  And both Kate and your father assure me
that I haven't truly experienced Ireland without attending a horse
fair.  And, more importantly, I thought it might be a fun way to spend
the day with you."

He felt her reaction before she'd said a word.  Her body, warm and
soft, turned to ice and stiffened.  "I'm sorry, Quinn."  Her strangely
tight tone said otherwise.  "But I won't be going to Clifden with
you."

"If tomorrow's inconvenient, Kate says the fair lasts for three
days--"

"Not tomorrow, or the next day, or any day.  There was no mistaking the
resolution in her expression or her voice.

He was about to point out that there would be music and entertainment,
races--including a steeple-chase--and wasn't her own father going to be
telling his tales, when Quinn suddenly remembered that her husband had
died riding in just such a race.

"Tell me about your marriage."

"My marriage?"  She stared at him.  "Why would you be wanting to know
about my marriage?"

"Because, Mrs.  Fitzpatrick, I want to know everything about you."  And
I can't help wondering f you still love the man you chose to give your
virginity and your heart to, he tacked on mentally.

Nora looked out the windshield at the glassy lake draped in moonlight.
"Conor was handsome and--" she paused as if carefully choosing the
correct word "Charismatic.  He had an energy that seemed to capture
everyone in its force field.  And a smile like a brilliant summer sun."
She sighed, a soft sound that Quinn had no trouble hearing in the
stillness of the night.  "I never knew anyone who wasn't bedazzled by
him at first meeting."

The jealousy that Quinn had reluctantly come to recognize suddenly had
claws, forcing him to wonder yet again why he kept reacting so strongly
to the idea of Nora loving another man.  Especially one who'd been dead
for five years.

"And were you?"  He played with a curl that had fallen across her
cheek, tugging it straight, then watching it spring into a coil again.
"Bedazzled?"

"Aye."  Her reminiscent smile caused the claws to dig a little
deeper.

"Then it was a good marriage?"

"Of course."  He thought he saw a faint shadow like a veil of fog move
across her expressive eyes.  "We never fought.  Not ever."  She said it
with a forcefulness that made him suspect she was lying.

"That's admirable.  And a little amazing."  He didn't call her on the
lie.  But he wasn't quite able to keep the challenge from his voice.

"Well, we may have talked hard from time to time," Nora allowed.  "Like
all couples we had our differences.  But we never went to bed angry."

"Now that I believe."  He ran his hand down her bare back.  "I can't
imagine a man staying angry with you in his bed."

"What a lovely thing to say."  Her smile, while not as bright and open
as usual, still made his heart turn over.  "It's the truth.  And if
you'd rather I spend tomorrow with you."

"No.  Kate and Da are right.  You should be going to the fair.  Just
mind you keep your hands in your pockets or you'll find yourself buying
a horse.  And meanwhile I'll have that lamb you never got the chance to
sample waiting for you when you get home."

There it was again.  That word.  That damn, seductive, terrifyingly
appealing word.  Home.

"The lamb's definitely an incentive, Nora, my sweet.  But I'd rather
have you waiting for me."  He skimmed a palm over her breasts and felt
great satisfaction at the way her nipples pebbled at the seductive
touch.  "Naked.  Hot."  Quinn's searching hand trailed lower.
"Ready."

"Always," she breathed with not a little wonder as he captured her
mouth with his, lowered her onto the seat and took them both back into
the mists.

* * *

Situated along Ireland's rocky western coast, Connemara was part of the
province of Connaught.  In the seventeenth century Oliver Cromwell had
given the Irish the choice of exiling themselves from the profitable
midland farms "to hell or Connacht."  The families that had stayed had
managed to eke out a living on the rocky soil, only to nearly be wiped
out by the famine years of the late 1800's.

As he drove through the treeless landscape past the lakes, waterfalls
and crystal creeks interspersed with rock-strewn open spaces and flat
brown, black and golden turf fields trimmed with gorse and heather,
Quinn found himself once again enchanted by the panorama of sea and
sky, land and hog.

The buildings scattered across the wild moorland provided as much
contrast as the landscape.  He'd pass a snug whitewashed, thatched-roof
cottage that reminded him of Nora's farmhouse, only to turn the corner
and find himself face-to-face with a manor house turned bed and
breakfast, a castle or the remains of an ancient stone fort.

"Aye, this is the back of beyond, even for Ireland," Brady agreed when
Quinn mentioned that, except for random glances of habitation, the only
signs of life were the sheep and goats on the rocky hillsides, the only
sound the trill of a bird floating on the salt-tinged breeze.  "But
it's lovely, just the same.... "That's Croagh Patrick."  Brady pointed
toward a dark cone of a mountain jutting up in the distance.

Pewter clouds draped the top of the peak.  "Legend has it that that's
where Saint Patrick got God to grant him the right to judge the people
of his adopted land on Judgment Day.

"Every year on Reek Sunday in July thousands of pilgrims climb the
mountain--some even barefoot, And you'd celebrate mass and commemorate
the blessed event."  He slanted Quinn a look.  ""Tis a shame you'll be
missing the amazing sight."

Quinn wasn't fooled for a minute.  He knew this was Brady's roundabout
way of asking the same question Michael had alluded to, the one the
crew had been betting on whether he was returning to America or staying
in Ireland with Nora.

"I'd like to witness that," he said.  "But I can't see them changing
the date on my account.... So, have you made the climb?"

"No.  Although I have spent several pleasant hours in the pub at the
foot of the Reek toasting with some of the best and creamiest stout in
Ireland those who've returned.  But those who've made the ascent say
that on a clear day, which unfortunately isn't all that often, the view
from the peak is enough to convert the most hard-hearted pagan."

Having felt the effects of this country on his own heart, Quinn didn't
doubt that in the least.

The unofficial capital--connemara--sheltered at the head of Clifden
Bay, backed by the brooding peaks of the Twelve Bells and pierced by
the spires of the Protestant church and Catholic cathedral, was an
arresting sight.  It was also familiar.

"Aye, it's a popular postcard," Brady agreed.  "Thank God that divil
Cromwell was too stupid to understand the beauty of this land or we'd
have been pushed off our country altogether and now be living beneath
the sea."

"Like the Lady."

Brady laughed and agreed.

Although the land surrounding the town may have seemed deserted, it
appeared everyone for miles around had arrived for the horse fair and
weekly market.  There was an amazing selection of items from local
vendors--ancient leather-bound books, newer paperback romances with
pastel covers promising stories of happily-ever-afters, wool goods
echoing the heather shades of the surrounding moors, exquisite
hand-tatted lace, vegetables, woven baskets and jewelry, including Tara
brooches and Claddagh rings--a heart clasped by two hands and topped
with a crown--displayed on black velvet trays.

"It was a Joyce who first designed that lovely ring," Brady informed
Quinn.

"Really?"  None of Quinn's guidebooks had mentioned that little bit of
Galway history.

"Now, would I be making up such a thing when it's so easy to document?
I suppose you'd be knowing that the Joyce family was prominent in the
affairs of Galway City?"

"One of the Fourteen Tribes of Galway," Quinn answered.  That much he
had learned.

"The first bearer of the family name in this country was Thomas de
Joise, a man of Norman Welsh descent, who married the daughter of one
of the O'Brien Princes of Thomond in 1283 and settled in the far west
of Connacht.  It was their son, Mac Mara, who subsequently married into
the powerful O'Flaherty family, and his descendants went on to rule the
territory until the seventeenth century.

Once again Quinn marveled at the way the Irish could make a
seven-hundred-year-old story seem relevant to their own lives.  Once
again, he thought of the Joyce blood--the blood of kings--running
through Nora's veins and compared it to his own.

"At any rate, Brady continued, "William Joyce was captured by the
Barbary pirates.  It was during his imprisonment in Algiers that he
learned a trade as a silversmith, then went on to create the Claddagh
ring.  The same symbol of abiding love that I gave to my own dear
Eleanor on our wedding day.  The same one that will be handed down to
Nora on her wedding day."

That seemingly offhand statement captured Quinn's immediate attention.
He looked up from the gold bracelet embossed with Celtic designs he'd
been considering buying for her.

"I don't understand.  The ring is handed down from mother to
daughter?"

"Aye.  In some families that's the tradition."

"But if your wife had already died when Nora married Fitzpatrick..."

"Ah, I can see the way your mind is going," Brady said with a knowing
nod.  "And the truth of the matter is that Eleanor didn't want Nora to
be given the ring on that day.  Because she didn't believe the marriage
would last."

Quinn wasn't about to ask Brady how he knew what his deceased wife
wanted.  "I thought they had a good marriage."

Brady rubbed his jaw.  His expression sobered.  "Let me be putting it
this way... would you be knowing the difference between a widow and a
wife?"

Quinn understood it was not as simple a question as it appeared.  "Why
don't you tell me?"

"A widow knows where her husband is spending the night."

The two men exchanged a look.  "Fitzpatrick may have been a hotshot
steeplechase rider," Quinn said, "but he was a damn fool."

"Aye."  The older man nodded.  "I've often thought so, as well."  He
gave Quinn another long look and seemed on the verge of saying
something else, something even more intimate, when a voice called out
his name, causing him to turn.  A man was walking toward them, his
stride long and self-assured.  "Why, isn't it Devlin Monohan," Brady
said with obvious pleasure.

"We've met," Quinn muttered, still not at ease with the idea of Nora
having been in love with this handsome Irish veterinarian.

The two men shook hands, each silently measuring the other as they'd
done that first time on the beach.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr.  Gallagher," Devlin said.  "I
was sorry you and Nora were unable to attend my mother's party."

I'll just bet you were, Quinn thought, suspecting that while his
presence wouldn't have been missed, Nora's undoubtedly had.  "It
couldn't be helped," he said.

"I was pleased to hear that Fionna escaped injury Terrible thing, the
Troubles," Devlin said with a regretful shake of his head before
turning back to Brady.  "I hope you're planning to tell the tale of
Queen Grace this afternoon?"

"Grace O'Malley was pirate queen of Connacht," Brady informed Quinn.
"If the stories are to be believed--"

"And surely there's no reason not to," Quinn interjected dryly.

"Aren't you getting the idea now, Quinn Gallagher," Brady said with
obvious approval.  "As the story goes, there wasn't a seaside castle in
all of Connacht that didn't pass through Grace's hands at one time or
another."

"My favorite tale is when she got out of bed right after giving birth,"
Devlin said.

"Aboard ship," Brady said, again for Quinn's sake.  ""Twas at sea, on
her corsair, that Grace felt the most at home."  He turned back to the
man who might have been his son-in-law.  "But continue your story,
Devlin, lad.  For my guest's edification."

"if you're interested," Devlin said to Quinn.

"I've yet to find anything about your country that doesn't interest
me," Quinn answered truthfully.

Devlin gave him another of those brief measuring looks before
continuing.  "Well, although I'm not the storyteller Brady is, it was
in the midst of battle and Grace could hear that the tide was turning
against her, so she grabbed a blunderbuss from one of her men and shot
the captain of the enemy ship dead.  This rallied her troops and they
fought on to victory."

"I'd expect nothing less."

"Grace was the scourge of the Elizabethans, that was for certain,"
Brady said.  "Fighting them at every turn and winning most of the
battles.  Even so, Elizabeth--the first one--offered to confer the
title of countess on her after a furious conflict with Connacht's
English governor.

"To encourage her to stop her piracy," Quinn guessed.  "Aye.  And
didn't our Grace turn the offer down, informing the English Protestant
monarch that she was already a queen in her own right."

"For all its alleged chauvinism, this country certainly seems to have
its share of strong women," Quinn said.  "Aye," Devlin and Brady said
in unison.  And as all three of them fell silent, Quinn suspected that,
like him, the others were not thinking of Grace, or the warrior queen
Maeve, or even the mythical Lady, but of Nora.

Quinn found the day every bit as informative and enjoyable as Kate had
promised.  His only regret was that Nora wasn't there to share it with
him.

""Tis a fine thing you did, Quinn Gallagher," the older man said as
they drove back to the farm at the end of the day.

Quinn glanced up into the rearview mirror at the trailer that had been
hitched to the back of the Mercedes.  "Nora warned me to keep my hands
in my pockets.  But when you told me that Rory's seventh birthday is
coming up next month and how much he's wanted a horse..."

"Oh, he has, indeed.  But of course Nora always insists that it's too
dear.  So it looked as if the poor lad was going to grow up to be the
only boy in all of Ireland without a pony."

Although he knew that was a blatant exaggeration, Quinn couldn't deny
that he was looking forward to seeing the kid's face when he got a look
at the bay mare.

"Monohan said she was gentle."  Although it had grated, just a little,
since he knew nothing about horses, Quinn had felt it only prudent to
ask the vet for his professional opinion.

"As a lamb."

"I wonder what Kate wanted."

Nora's sister-in-law had actually paled when she'd seen what he'd done
and had hurriedly told him that, after she'd seen to the seeing of her
own stallion, it was imperative they talk.  But when he'd gone to look
for her later, he couldn't locate her in the teeming crowd.  "She
undoubtedly wanted to congratulate you," Brady said quickly.  A bit too
quickly, Quinn thought with a little niggling of suspicion.  "But
whatever it was, it will surely keep until tomorrow."

"I suppose that's true."  Quinn remembered what Nora had told him about
God making plenty of time.  Then smiled at the thought of how she was
going to react when he arrived home with Rory's horse in tow.

Chapter Twenty-One

Treat Me Daughter Kindly

Nora came out the kitchen door when she heard the Mercedes pull into
the driveway.  "What is that?"  she asked, staring in seeming disbelief
at the trailer hitched behind the car.  Her expression was far from
pleased.

"A present for Rory," Quinn said, another tinge of suspicion dulling
the self-satisfaction he'd felt earlier when he'd slapped hands with
the robust Clare farmer who'd sold him the mare.  "I know it's a little
early for his birthday, but--"

"A horse?"  Her voice rose.  Hectic color stained cheeks as white as
rice paper.  "You bought my son a horse?"

The others had gathered in the driveway behind her, their expressions
ranging from Fionna's regretful to Rory's wide-eyed disbelief.  Maeve,
who had run out of the kitchen behind Nora to greet him, began barking
loudly in the direction of the trailer, even as she hovered behind
Quinn.

Ignoring the wolfhound, Quinn decided this was simply a repeat of her
reaction to his giving John a computer.  Obviously Nora was uneasy
accepting such an expensive gift.  "Brady mentioned that Rory's been
wanting a pony, and I realize you're going to feel the need to
complain."

"You're damn right I'm going to complain," she cut him off with a
furious wave of a hand that was visibly trembling.  She turned on her
father, fists at her hips.  "How could you do this, Da?  Knowing how I
feel?  How I've always felt?"

"Now, Nora," Brady began cajolingly.  "You know I love you with all my
heart, daughter.  And I truly appreciate all you've done over these
past years to keep our little family together.  But you're wrong about
this."

"Wrong about what?"  Quinn asked, feeling as if he'd just walked into a
movie during the second reel.  Obviously he was missing an important
part of this latest story.

"Mam won't let me have a pony," Rory offered on a voice thick with
building tears.  "Because of how my da died."

Hell.  That was what he got for giving in to impulse, Quinn blasted
himself.  He should have thought of that.  And even though the idea
hadn't occurred to him, Brady damn well should have warned him.

"Nora, believe me, I didn't know.  If I had--"

"I'll be hearing no ifs."  Her face had hardened to stone.  Her eyes
were frost.  "Nor will I be putting my son at risk.  The horse goes
back."

"Now, Nora," Brady said again, "you know that a Castlelough's man's
handshake is as good as an oath."

"Quinn is not a Castlelough man."

"True enough.  But I was the one who introduced him to Johnny Keane in
the first place."

"Then you're the one who can take the horse back."

"I'll not be doing that."  Brady raised himself up to his full height.
"I understand the fear that struck your heart the day your husband
died.  But you're not being fair to your son.  The lad's Irish.  Irish
boys need horses.  It's as simple as that."

Nora lifted her chin and folded her arms.  "Now there's where you're
wrong."  She turned to Quinn.  "I realize you didn't mean any harm,
Quinn.  But Rory's my son, and I'd do what's best for him.  And for now
I'd appreciate it if you'd take the horse to Kate's until I can arrange
to have it returned to Mr.  Keane at first light tomorrow."

"Mam!"  It was a wail.  Quinn looked at mother and son, one's eyes
brimming with tears, the others as hard as the stone walls separating
the Irish fields, and damned himself for having created such an
impossible situation.

She turned to her distraught son, crouched and stroked a hand over his
dark hair.  "You know my feelings on this, Rory, darling.  And although
I don't expect you to understand now, someday, when you have a boy or
girl of your own."

"I don't want a boy or girl of my own."  He jerked away, his freckles
dark against a face as pale as his mother's.  "I want a horse.  And if
you won't let me keep this one, I'll never be speaking to you again!"
With that threat hanging in the air, Rory spun on his heel and ran back
into the house, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

Quinn decided to try once more.  "Nora, I'm truly sorry.

"I believe you."  Her voice was as flat as her gaze.  "But the damage
has already been done.  Now I'd appreciate it if you'd just get that
beast out of here."

"It's not a beast," Brady insisted.  "Didn't Devlin say she was a fine
and gentle mare?"

"Devlin?"  Obviously this betrayal cut deepest of all.  "Devlin was in
on this, as well?"

"I asked his professional opinion," Quinn explained.  "It seemed like a
good idea at the time."

"And wasn't that something, all the men in my life deciding they knew
what was best for my son."  Her voice clogged.  "I swear, Da, I've half
a mind to take the children and move to Galway."

"Now, darling, you wouldn't want to be doing that," Brady cajoled.

"Please, because I don't want to say things we both might always
regret, I don't want you to say another word.  Not now."  As if afraid
she'd break down in front of her family, she turned away and began
walking toward her car.  "I'll be taking a drive.  And when I get back,
I'll not be wanting to see any sign of a horse on this farm."

With that she was gone.  Leaving Quinn feeling like the Grinch who'd
stolen Nora's happy family.

"I guess I'd better take the mare over to Kate's," he said to no one in
particular.

"I think that might be the thing to do for now," Fionna agreed. "Nora's
always been a strict mother, but fair.  But she does have a sore spot
when it comes to horses."

"It's one she needs to get over," Brady continued to insist doggedly.
"It's not right for the boy to be denied a horse just because of his
mother's unreasonable fear."

"Not that unreasonable," Fionna told her son.  "And you had no business
using Quinn to get round her that way."

Ii.

"True."  He turned toward Quinn, regret etched into every line in his
face.  "And I'm sorry for my little intrigue.  But I truly thought that
once Nora actually saw how happy your gift made her son, she'd
relent."

Since the older man's usually ruddy complexion was an unhealthy shade
of gray, revealing his own stress with this situation, Quinn decided
that no good would come from backing Nora and Fionna.  He also realized
that, contrary to conventional wisdom, the widow Fitzpatrick could hold
a grudge, after all.

"She'll calm down," he said, wanting to offer some words of assurance
to this man who looked every year of his age.  He looked even worse,
Quinn thought, than he had outside the Derry hospital where his mother
had been taken.

"Aye."  Brady nodded, a bit more strength in his voice and his spirit.
"And when she does, I'm grateful she'll have you to turn to.  You're a
good man, Quinn Gallagher.  I only hope you'll be able to forgive me
for today's little scheme."

"You're Rory's grandfather.  You did what you thought was in the boy's
best interests.  Nora will understand that once she has time to think
about it."  Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Fionna shepherding
the other children back into the house.  "Would you like a drive to The
Rose?"

"No."  Brady shook his head and managed a smile.  ""Tis a lovely
evening.  I think I'll just sit here and enjoy the sound of the
crickets for a time."

Quinn was torn between staying with the man he'd grown fond of and
getting rid of the mare before Nora returned from her drive.  "If
you're sure you'll be okay... "Don't you be worrying about me, lad.
I'll be as fit as a fiddle.  The day an Irishman can't handle a
redheaded female's temper is a sorry day, indeed."

Deciding that he'd only insult Nora's father by pressing, Quinn climbed
into the Mercedes, started the engine and began to drive away, trying
to ignore the small desolate face he saw looking out from an upstairs
window.

As he watched the car and trailer drive off down the road, Brady
decided that after the day he'd had, a drink and some convivial company
was definitely in order.  Unfortunately his mam's car had been blown to
smithereens in Derry, and Nora had the other.

"I should have taken Quinn up on his offer," he muttered up at the
star-spangled sky.  On the other hand, perhaps an evening walk was just
what he needed to lift his spirits the rest of the way.

Wisps of fog rolled in from the sea like silent ghosts, wrapping him in
a cool mist.  Although the village seemed a bit farther away than the
last time he'd walked from the farm, which was, he realized probably
five years earlier, he managed to keep up a brisk pace, proving to
himself yet again exactly how wrong that pup Flannery was.  Why, his
heart was as strong as ever.  Probably as strong as the fool doctor's
himself, Brady decided as he approached the stone bridge crossing the
river into Castlelough.

"What the heck?"  The bridge, dating back to the time when the town was
first founded, had stood in the same spot for centuries.  But no more.
Strangely, it had disappeared.  "Now how is a man expected to get to
his favorite pub?"

"I'll be giving you a ride--for a gold piece," a voice hidden deep in
the thickening fog, offered.

Brady peered into the mist and thought he saw the faint glow of a
lantern from somewhere on the water.  "And what would the likes of a
poor farmer such as me self be doing with a piece of gold?"  he
asked.

"Check your pocket," the voice suggested helpfully in Irish.

Thinking the man was obviously daft, Brady nevertheless did so--only to
humor him, he told himself--and was surprised when his fingers closed
around the coin.  "Where in the divil did that come from?"  he asked.

"Magic," the man said on a rusty cackle.

He held the lantern aloft, allowing Brady to get a good look at the
boatman sitting in the old-fashioned canvas curragh favored by
traditional west Irish fishermen.  His grizzled face looked older than
the Joyce family fields; the stump of a pipe disappeared into a beard
as white as the snow that occasionally muffled the island.

"Is your curragh sound?"

"And hasn't it been taking passengers across this river since before
you were a twinkle in your da's eye, Brady Joyce?"

Brady was not all that surprised the man knew who he was.  After all,
he'd acquired a bit of fame in his lifetime.  The strange thing was
that Brady didn't recognize the boatman.  He would have bet a year's
worth of pints he knew every man in the county.

That thought in turn gave birth to another--he was thirsty.  And he
certainly wasn't going to be getting a pint standing here on the bank
of the river talking.

He handed over the coin and climbed into the small shallow boat.  A
moment later he found himself engulfed in fog so thick he couldn't see
his hand in front of his face.  The cold dampness seemed to be seeping
its way through his wool jacket and trousers, all the way to the marrow
of his bones.  He saw a light from what he took to be the far bank and
assumed the welcoming glow was coming from The Rose's windows. Perhaps,
he thought, as the chill deepened, he'd forgo the Guinness tonight for
the warming comfort of some whiskey-laced coffee.

"It won't be long now," the boatman assured him from somewhere in the
swirling gray mist as he rowed toward the light.

"Jaysus!"  Brady exclaimed when he saw the figure standing on the bank,
surrounded by a light as bright as the gilded halos painted over the
heads of all those saints on the curved ceiling of the Immaculate Heart
Church.

"Not quite," a blessedly familiar voice said with the hint of humor
he'd always adored.  "And not yet."

While he was accustomed to talking with his wife on a daily basis,
Brady had not seen her since they'd lowered her casket into the rich
loamy earth.  Amazingly she appeared as she had the day they'd married,
her hair as black and shiny as a raven's wing, her cheeks blooming like
roses in the snowfield of her flawless complexion, her white dress
enhancing curves he still caressed nightly in his dreams.

She held out a slender hand as the boatman docked.  Rising slowly to
his feet, Brady held out his own.  When their fingers touched and he
felt the spark shoot through him like summer lightning, Brady realized
this was no dream.

Although he would not have thought it possible, the shimmering light
surrounding her glowed even brighter, engulfing him as he gathered her
into his arms.

"Ah, my love."  Eleanor sighed as she twined her slender arms around
his neck in exactly the same way she had on their wedding night so many
years ago.  "I've missed you so."

And as her lips touched his, warming him in a blissfully familiar way
that Irish coffee never could, Brady realized he wouldn't be going to
The Rose tonight.  Because after all these years of loneliness, he'd
finally rediscovered heaven.  With the one true love of his life.  His
beloved Eleanor.

Alone in her bed in the upstairs of the farmhouse where she'd been
raised, Kate was jerked out of yet another restless sleep by the
feeling that something was wrong.  At first she thought Cadel might
have returned from his cousin's in Dungarven, which couldn't mean
anything good.  She lay in the shadowed darkness, willing her startled
heart to be quiet, and listened, as she had night after night ever
since the misty dreams had begun.

But all she could hear was the scrape of a tree branch against her
window, the sigh of the wind in the chimney, the distant unceasing
murmur of the sea and the creaking sounds of her house.

When she failed to hear the painfully familiar noise her drunkard
husband made stumbling into furniture or clomping up the stairs, she
began to breathe a wee bit easier.  Climbing out of the hand-carved
tester bed she'd been born in, she drew on her robe and went across the
hall and checked on her daughter.

Brigid's hair gleamed like wildfire in the star shine streaming in the
window, and her rosebud mouth was curved in a smile, suggesting happy
dreams.  The sight of such childish innocence brought a smile to Kate's
own lips as she bent down and brushed the top of the toddler's bright
head with a kiss.

Next door, in the room that had once been Conor's, she found her son
also sound asleep.  But his sheets were twisted in a way that suggested
he'd been restless as well.  She untangled him from the bed linens as
best she could without waking him, removed the toy laserAight sword
Quinn had brought him from Deny that was making a lump of his pillow,
kissed him as she had Brigid, then tiptoed out of the room.

Stopping in the hallway at the top of the stairs, she stood stone still
and listened again.  Nothing seemed amiss in the house.  Yet, unable to
shake the continuing feeling of unease, Kate returned to her bedroom
and stared out the window into the night.  Wondering.  Worrying.
Waiting.

The house was dark when Nora finally returned from her drive, which had
included a long contemplative time spent at her secret place at the
lake.  The solitude and the mystical presence of her surroundings had
calmed her restless mind, as they so often did, allowing her to think
more clearly.

Although she dearly loved her family, it hadn't been easy taking on her
mother's role at such a young age.  When she'd first returned home from
the convent, everyone was so devastated by Eleanor's death, she'd
buried her own feelings of loss and tried to provide an atmosphere of
calm support, even though deep inside, her heart was shattered. Looking
back, Nora realized she'd given them all the mistaken impression that
she was unsinkable.  That whatever the problem--from a broken doll to a
dead husband--steadfast practical Nora could handle it.

But heaven help her and God forgive her, she thought as she cut the car
engine, she was so very weary of handling things.

She went into the house, finding the note her grandmother had left on
the kitchen table assuring her that Rory had gone to bed like the good
little lamb he was, and that she'd said a prayer to Bernadette to ease
the pain between mother and son.

Wishing she possessed the unwavering faith Fionna seemed to have in the
martyred nun, Nora read on.  "Although I've gone to bed as well,
darling," her grandmother had written in that spidery script that still
held a vestige of the penmanship method taught by the Sister of Mercy
nuns, "if you should feel the need for conversation when you return
home from your drive, feel free to wake me--"

Knowing the offer came from the heart, Nora opted against seeking out
whatever comfort Fionna might be able to offer.  The regrettable truth
was, as she'd sat beside the moon-gilded waters, she'd taken a long
hard look at the fear that had been part of her for such a long time,
and realized that although she'd always prided herself on being a good
mother, she hadn't been fair to her son.

Although Conor had been a great deal older than she, Nora could recall
stories of Mel Fitzpatrick--his paternal grandfather--taking him riding
before he could walk.  Everyone in the county always said that Conor
had been born to the saddle.  And wasn't his blood running in his own
son's veins?  How could she have let the dread that had put such a
stranglehold on her keep her from understanding Rory's lifelong dream
for a pony of his own?

She owed her son an apology.  And, she'd reluctantly accepted, a horse.
As she'd driven home, she'd decided that if he'd managed to fall asleep
after the emotional evening, she'd wait until morning for the
long-overdue conversation.  But now, standing alone in the dimly lit
kitchen, she changed her mind.

"No time like the present," she murmured as she turned off the light
Fionna had left burning for her and left the room, headed upstairs.

Rory's door, like all the others along the darkened hallway, was
closed.  Nora entered the room, feeling the usual surge of maternal
emotion she felt whenever she watched her son sleeping.

"Rory."  She leaned over the bed, instinctively reaching for him in the
dark.  On some distant level she found it odd she couldn't hear his
breathing.  "Wake up, darling.  Mama has something she needs to tell
you."  Her hand touched the pillow, stuffed with feathers from hens
that had ended up on the table.  It was strangely cold.  "Rory?"
Reaching out, she turned on the lamp on the nearby nightstand.  When
she saw the empty bed, icy fingers clenched her heart.

Quinn heard her drive up.  Heard her enter the house, and after a few
moments, come upstairs.  He'd been waiting up for her, but when he
heard the faint squeak of Rory's door across the hall, decided to give
her an opportunity to make things up with her son before they had their
necessary talk.

He was prepared for her continued censure.  After all, there wasn't
anything she could call him that Quinn hadn't called himself while
driving the mare over to Kate's farm.  A conversation with Nora's
sister-in-law, filling him in on a few more of the details of Conor's
death--including the way he'd lingered in a coma for three long
months--had left him feeling even guiltier.

Although it was an unpalatable idea, he belatedly realized that he'd
bought the horse as much for himself as for the boy.  It was more than
a little obvious that, while certainly not poverty-stricken, the family
lived mostly hand-to-mouth.  He'd gotten off on playing the rich
American, bestowing gifts like some bountiful Santa Claus.

He'd let her blast him for as long as she needed, he'd decided as he'd
tried, unsuccessfully, to work on his new novel while waiting for her
to return.  Then he'd agree to everything she might say.

And then, if he was lucky, since he'd already determined she possessed
a kind and caring nature, she might even be willing to forgive him. And
if he was very very lucky, perhaps she might even be willing to make
the argument up in his bed.

He'd begun to fantasize about all the things he wanted to do with her
when his bedroom door burst open and he saw her standing there, her
face impossibly pale.

"It's Rory."  Her eyes were as wild as an escapee from an asylum; her
complexion that of a wraith "He's gone missing, but I called Kate,
thinking that he might have followed the mare to her farm, and she
found him in the barn, with the mare."

He was out of bed in a shot.  "Give me two minutes to throw on some
clothes and we'll go get him."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

As he pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, Quinn acknowledged that Nora
was capable of handling the matter of a runaway boy in her own brisk,
effective manner.  But that didn't stop him from being immensely
relieved that after what he'd done, she'd want him with her.  Obviously
Kate was right.  Nora was not a woman to hold grudges.

"Rory isn't the first boy to run away from home," he assured her.
Hadn't he done exactly that too many times to count by the time he'd
reached Rory's age?  Unfortunately the sheriffs deputies, or cops, or
social workers always took him back to his parents.  "And he won't be
the last."

After jamming his feet into his boots, he gathered her into his arms
and pressed his lips to her temple.  She was as cold as ice.  And
trembling.  "Come on, sweetheart, let's go bring your son home."

"It's all my fault," Nora murmured five minutes later as she stared out
the windshield of the Mercedes.  She wasn't seeing the rain that had
begun to streak down the curved glass, only the stricken look on her
son's young face when he'd run back into the house earlier.

"I've never been one for assigning blame," Quinn said mildly.
"Personally I've always thought it a waste of time.  But if someone has
to be at fault, it's me for bringing the damn horse home in the first
place."

"Perhaps you should have asked me," she allowed, clasping her hands
more tightly in her lap.  "But I've been unnecessarily rigid."

"Stop the presses and notify the pope."  He reached out and took hold
of one of those rigid icy hands, linking their fingers together in a
companionable way.  "It seems that the allegedly saintly Nora
Fitzpatrick isn't quite ready for beatification, after all."

Despite a bit of fear that remained after finding her son's bed empty,
and her regret for having exchanged such.  harsh words with both the
son and father she loved, Nora smiled.  She thought about telling Quinn
once again how good he was for her, but knew he'd dismiss her words,
and her feelings, just as he had in the past.

"And isn't that a shame?"  she murmured mildly "Just when I'd gotten so
used to wearing that pretty gold halo."

His answering laugh was rich and warm slipped beneath her skin, into
her blood,

away the last of the lingering ice.

Kate was waiting outside the house for them, standing in the spreading
glow of the porch lamp a flashlight in her hand."  "He's in the barn. I
found him there asleep and I

was going to wake him, but since you were on your way, I thought I'd be
leaving that up to you."  She turned to Nora.  "She's a fine mare,
Nora.  Sturdy, with a sweet disposition, and from the papers Keane gave
Quinn, she comes from a good bloodline.  I'll be more than happy to
take her off your hands."

"No."  Nora shook her head, her answer surprising Quinn.  "Brady's
right.  Rory's entitled to a pony, and we'll be keeping her.  But I
would appreciate it if you could board her until I can get the barn
ready for her."  There hadn't been a horse in the barn since Conor's
accident.

"I'd be happy to."  Kate's approving smile as she handed over the
flashlight hid the feeling she had that something wasn't right.  When
she'd first gotten the call from Nora and had found Rory in her barn,
she'd hoped the boy's running away was what she'd been sensing.  But if
that was the case, why was she still feeling this vague unease?  "Your
son and the mare--and Maeve of course--are in the first stall."

And that was where they found him, curled in the straw, his arms
wrapped around Maeve's neck, using the huge dog for a pillow.  The
wolfhound looked up at their arrival and gave a welcoming thump of her
thick tail.

"Rory."  Nora crouched beside her sleeping son and stroked his hair.
"Darling, wake up."

His eyes fluttered open.  When he saw his mother, he tensed and
tightened his hold on the black, white and gray dog.  Seeing the tracks
of tears on his cheeks and the dread in his eyes, Nora bit her lip to
keep from crying herself.  "Rory, I'm sorry.  I've tried my best to be
a good mother to you, but--"

"But I can't have a pony," he interrupted flatly.

"No.  I mean, no, that's not right.  What I'm trying to tell you is
that I was wrong about the pony.  Your father was a great rider, Rory.
All the Fitzpatrick men have been.  It's only natural that you'd
inherit their love of horses.  And Kate assures me this is a very nice
mare."

"Oh, she's better than nice!"  Rory said quickly.  "She's the best mare
in all of Castlelough.  The best in the county, even."

The horse, standing at the far side of the stall, nickered softly in
apparent agreement.

"She looks as if she may be the best in all of Ireland," Nora said, and
watched as her son's small, earnest face lit up.  "And I think we owe
Quinn a thank-you for such a glorious early birthday present."

"Aye."  Rory looked up at the man standing beside Nora as if viewing
some ancient king come back to life.  "Thank you.  It's the best gift
ever.  Even better than the Millennium Falcon model."

Quinn laughed, feeling unreasonably lighthearted as he bent down and
lifted the boy into his arms.  "Believe me, Rory, me lad," be said, "it
was my pleasure.  Perhaps one of these days, before the filming is
over, your aunt Kate will lend me one of her horses and we can go
riding together."

Rory glanced at his mother.  "I think that sounds like a lovely idea,"
Nora agreed.  "Perhaps the three of us could go together.  And of
course Maeve, as well," she added as the dog stood up and executed a
long blissful stretch.

Rory's grin was a flash of white in his smudged face.  "That's the best
idea you've ever had, Mam."

As the thin arms twined around his neck, bringing with them the pungent
aromas of horse and hay and six-year-old boy, Quinn forgot to worry
when he found himself silently agreeing with Rory's assessment.

After being assured that the mare could be brought over to the farm as
soon as a stall was ready and the paddock fence repaired, Rory slept in
the back seat of the car on the way home.

As Quinn carried him upstairs and they tucked him into bed together,
Nora's unruly heart couldn't help thinking how good it felt to be with
Quinn this way.  How right.  So right, in fact, that she didn't
hesitate going across the hall into the room that had been hers.

"I owe you an apology," she said softly so as not to wake the family
who'd managed to sleep through the entire adventure.  "For taking off
on you that way."

"I deserved it."  Because it had been too long since he'd kissed her,
Quinn lightly touched his lips to hers.  "I already knew about Conor's
accident of course."  He considered it personal growth that he could
say his long-dead rival's name without choking.  "But after Kate filled
me in on the details, I understood why you flew off the handle."

"I was so afraid for Rory."  Luxuriating in the comfort of his strong
arms, Nora was as emotionally, physically and mentally exhausted as
she'd ever been in her life.

"Believe me, sweetheart, I know something firsthand about fear."  He
skimmed his mouth up her cheek and was rewarded by a shimmering sigh.
"But although I've never been a father, I also know that kids are
amazingly resilient."  Quinn considered sharing some of his own past as
proof of that claim, then allowed himself to be distracted by her hands
slipping beneath his sweatshirt to stroke his back.  "You can't wrap
Rory up in cotton batting and keep him tied to your apron strings
forever."

His mouth returned to hers.  Tasting.  Teasing.  Tormenting.

"Even if they are very nice apron strings," he alleged, untying the
apron Nora had forgotten she'd been wearing when she'd left the kitchen
to confront him so many hours earlier.

"We'll have to be very quiet," she whispered.  Remembering how he'd
made her cry out in the car, Nora wondered who she was warning.  Quinn?
Or herself?

"As mice," he whispered back as he pulled the emerald green sweater
over her head in one smooth deft movement.  Scooping her up with the
same ease he had Rory earlier, he carried her the few feet to the
bed.

That was the last thing either Quinn or Nora was to say for a very long
time.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tears on the Heather

Nora awoke to the sound of larks singing in the meadows.  She opened
her eyes and found herself staring straight into Quinn's.

"Good morning," he murmured.  He brushed some sleep-tousled waves away
from her face.  "Have I told you that waking up with you in my bed
could easily become my favorite thing to do?"

Enjoying the warmth of his gaze and the feel of his hard body pressed
so close to hers, Nora smiled.  "Mine, too," she admitted.

"We're going to have to talk about this."  He cupped her cheek with his
palm, the sensual desire she'd witnessed in his eyes turning as serious
as she'd ever seen it.  "About me."  His thumb traced a melting trail
around the mouth he'd spent most of the night ravishing.  "And you."
His free arm drew her even closer.  "Us together."

Hope was a snow-white dove, spreading its sun-gilded wings to take
flight in her romantic's heart.  "Aye."  Her lips parted and her body
began that now-familiar slow melt.

"Later."

Quinn had given up wondering why it was that he couldn't get enough of
this woman.  He'd have expected, especially after last night, he'd be
too exhausted, not to mention sexually satiated, to want to start
things up again.  And it wasn't just his body, he realized as he felt
the familiar hardening in his loins.  If it had been merely sex, he
could have handled it.  But his mind wanted her with an identical
fever. Not to mention, Lord help him, a heart he'd never been aware of
possessing.

Allowing himself one long deep kiss that left him aching, he pushed
himself out of the warm bed.  "I'm going to take a cold shower before
Rory comes bursting in to make certain he didn't dream last night." The
way she was looking at him--at the part of him that inevitably hardened
whenever she was anywhere around--made him groan.

"You realize, of course, if you keep looking at me that way, we're
going to risk having what could be a very embarrassing moment."

"I know."  She sighed.  And then smiled.  "I just can't seem to help
myself."  She hitched herself up in bed, not bothering to catch the
sheet as it slid down to reveal rosy-tipped breasts he could still
taste.

"You're a truly beautiful man, Quinn Gallagher."  Her warm gaze drank
him in, missing absolutely nothing.  "I think Michelangelo must have
had you in mind when he sculpted David."

Make that a very long cold shower, Quinn decided.  "Remember last
night?  When I suggested you weren't going to make sainthood?"

"I remember everything about last night."  Her satisfied smile reminded
him of the one with which Vivien Leigh's Scarlett had lit up silver
screens all over the world after having been thoroughly ravished by her
husband.  "Absolutely everything."

"I'm finding it more and more difficult to believe you were ever in the
convent."

"I'm finding it difficult to believe, as well."  if she'd had even a
glimmer of the thoughts the sight of Quinn's magnificent naked body
could invoke back in those days, she would have been forced to spend
all her waking hours on her knees on the stone floor of the convent
chapel.

"You're not only far from a saint.  You're a witch."  His muffled
laughter rumbled in his chest even as the ache deepened in his groin.
"if you'd been alive during the Inquisition, sweetheart, the Church
would have burned you at the stake."

His control was nearing the breaking point, and before he gave in to
the urge to drag Nora into the shower with him, Quinn left the room.

Nora was relieved when it seemed that Brady was going to sleep in.
Relieved, but not surprised.  After their argument he'd undoubtedly
gone off to The Rose, where he could tell everyone what a hard-headed,
heartless woman his eldest daughter had turned out to be.

No, she admitted as she went through the motions of preparing her
family's breakfast, that wasn't fair.  Brady had never been one to air
their dirty laundry in public, and he was also not one to say negative
things about anyone.  Let alone his own family.

Didn't everyone in the county agree that Brady Joyce had a spirit
generous enough for a dozen men?  Which was why, she considered later,
as she waved the children off to the crossroads to catch the bus, he'd
dared to risk her wrath by standing up to her about Rory's need for a
pony.

"I'm going to have to apologize to Da," she said to Quinn as they sat
at the kitchen table.

Fionna had just taken off, this time to nearby Casla, where she was
scheduled to be interviewed on Radio na Gaeltachta, the Irish-language
radio station, regarding her frightening experience in Derry.  Claiming
no desire for personal fame, she'd explained to the others that she'd
only agreed to the interview because it provided a perfect opportunity
to spread the message of Bernadette.  Quinn covered Nora's hand with
his.  "He understands you were upset."

"Just the same, I owe him the words."

Reminding himself how important words were to the Irish, Quinn knew
that he owed Nora more than a few words himself.  Words he'd never
spoken aloud to any other person.  Words he'd never thought he'd be
wanting to say to a woman.  Words he still wasn't certain he had the
right to say to her.  As much as he wanted to believe in a future,
having spent an entire lifetime expecting the worst, he couldn't quite
allow himself to look forward to a happily-ever-after future.

Feeling his nerve waver, Quinn decided that, since he'd already waited
this long, a few more minutes wouldn't matter.  The one thing he didn't
want was to have Brady come downstairs just when he was trying to tell
Nora he'd fallen in love with her.

He got up from the table and refilled his coffee cup.  "How late do you
think he'll sleep?"

"I don't know."  She glanced up at the clock and frowned.  "He's
usually up and about by now.  Perhaps I should go check on him." Before
she could stand, the phone rang.  Since Quinn was already on his feet,
he said' "I'll get it," and went into the parlor.

When Quinn didn't return right away, Nora guessed it was Kate calling
about the mare.  Indulging herself a bit longer, she poured more tea
and added cleaning out the stall to her mental list of today's
chores.

"I suppose Rory will be expecting his pony Waiting when he returns from
school today," she said when Quinn returned to the kitchen.  "I'd best
be getting things prepared for her--" She stopped.  "Quinn?"  His face
was as grim as she'd ever seen it.

"It's Brady."

"Da?"  She glanced past him toward the parlor.  "On the telephone?"

"No."  He raked his hand through his dark hair, looking as if he'd
rather be anywhere on earth right now but in Nora Fitzpatrick's cozy
kitchen.  "It was about your father."

"Oh."  She still couldn't understand the problem.  Weren't people
calling all the time hoping to book Brady and his tales for their
event?  "Well, I suppose this settles it."  She stood up.  "I'll just
go upstairs and--"

"He's not upstairs."  Quinn crossed the room and wrapped his arms
around her, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.

She tilted her head.  "What do you mean?  Of course he is.  Haven't we
been waiting for him to come down so we could have our talk?"  She'd
been as nervous as a barn cat in a roomful of rocking chairs waiting to
hear what Quinn had to say.

"Sweetheart."  His tone was as rough as a gravel road.  He cupped her
face between his large strong hands and, looking up at him, Nora saw
the love she'd been hoping and praying for.  But something else, too.
Sympathy?  Pity, perhaps?  "Your father's dead."  When she flinched,
his fingers stroked her cheeks in a way meant to soothe, rather than
arouse.

"Dead?"  Surely that couldn't be her voice?  Nora thought, hearing the
unfamiliar high fractured sound.

"He was found on the road just this side of the bridge by a farmer who
was taking his cows to his field this morning.  The doctor says he'd
probably been there since sometime last night."  Quinn took a deep
breath.  "It was his heart.  Dr.  Flannery says he would have gone
quickly."

Nora felt the blood literally drain from her face.  "I don't believe
that!"  She tore away from him and raced blindly out of the kitchen and
up the stairs.

She ran down the hallway, past Rory's door, past her own, past Mary's
and John's and Fionna's, finally flinging open the door of the small
room tucked away beneath the eaves.  The bedroom her father had moved
into after Nora had wed Conor, claiming that they should have the
couple's room, after all.

The narrow iron bed had not been slept in.  Nora stared disbelievingly
at the lace spread that had been a wedding present to her parents from
an elderly Joyce aunt.  It was as smooth and unwrinkled as it had been
when she'd put it on the bed after changing the sheets yesterday
morning.

White spots, like snow crystals, began to swirl in front of her eyes.
On some distant level she was dimly aware of Quinn coming up behind
her.  Of him putting his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close,
murmuring inarticulate words that could have been Greek for all the
meaning they held for her.

The blizzard increased, blinding her while turning her blood to ice.
Then Nora Joyce Fitzpatrick, who'd never fainted--not even when she'd
gotten word that her husband's stallion had failed to clear that stone
wall somewhere on the far distant rocky coast of Breton-surrendered to
the darkness.

Brady had always been a man to honor tradition.  That being the case,
his death set into motion a ritualized series of events, beginning with
a home wake, never mind that such things had passed out of fashion,
killed by the influence of modern Catholicism.

Since he was a popular person, known to one and all as kind and
generous, the small house became packed with friends from all over the
county.  Even with some who'd not known him personally but felt moved
to join all those gathered at the farm not to mourn Brady Joyce's
passing, but to celebrate his remarkable life.

Guinness and Jameson flowed like water, stories were traded, each one
more outrageous than the previous, but none, everyone agreed, told with
quite the flair Brady would have shown.

Nora moved through the gathering as she had since first regaining
consciousness in Quinn's arms: on autopilot.  Although she managed to
smile at all the right times and remembered to thank the women for
their gifts of food and the men for sharing those joyous memories, she
could not stop thinking about her father dying all alone out on that
lonely dark road with her angry threat to move to Galway--which she
hadn't really meant--ringing in his ears.

"It wasn't your fault," Quinn told her yet again after he'd gone
upstairs and found her sitting vigil beside Brady's bed.  Although
she'd agreed to the wake, she'd put her foot down at the idea of her
father's body lying in the center of her parlor all night surrounded by
merrymakers.

Although a part of Quinn found the core belief of the wake that it
guarded the deceased's soul from the devil until internment--a bit
ghoulish, he could understand the concept.  And there was no denying
that, with the exception of Nora--who was proving inconsolable--the
wake seemed to bring the family comfort.

Indeed, there was something strangely reassuring in the idea that death
was simply one more part of the life cycle.  "A necessary phase
everyone must pass through before achieving immortality," said Nora's
brother Finn, who'd come from Australia.

"My words killed him."  Her voice tolled like a funeral knell in the
quiet bedroom.  It was nearly dawn.  A pink pearlescent glow offered
the promise of a new day.

"His heart killed him," Quinn repeated what everyone had already told
her.  Again and again.  Unfortunately it appeared that no amount of
arguing or well-meaning words of consolation could ease the guilt that
had taken hold of her gentle heart.  "Dr.  Flannery said he'd
recommended a bypass months ago."

"Dr.  Flannery should have said something to me.

"Brady told him not to.  And even out here in the back-of-beyond west,
doctor-patient privilege has to be respected."

Her eyes were bleak and uncharacteristically empty, the purple smudges
beneath them evidence of a lack of sleep.  "If I'd only known, I could
have done something."

Mindful of the way father and daughter had parted, Quinn, like everyone
else in the family, had been treating Nora with kid gloves.  Now he
began to wonder if perhaps that had been a mistake.

"what could you have done?"  he challenged mildly, pulling up a wooden
chair to sit beside her.  "Hit him over the head with a shovel and drag
him into the hospital for the operation?"

"No, but--"

"Perhaps you believe you could have changed his mind?  Made him see the
light of his folly, so to speak?"

She sighed at that idea.  "Da was, in his fashion, a hardheaded man."

"And nearly as stubborn as his lovely daughter,"

Quinn said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips.  When she tried
to tug it free, he tightened his hold.  "Face it' sweetheart.  Although
he might not have always acted like an adult, your father was a grown
man.  Capable of making his own choices."

"I can't believe it was truly his choice to die alone out on that
road."  Words clogged in her throat, and emotions burned at the back of
her eyelids in the form of unshed tears.  "Without his family around
him."

Giving up on retrieving her hand, she turned her gaze back to the bed.
How strange it was, she considered, to see such a vibrant man lying so
still and quiet.  Brady Joyce's presence had always energized a room,
bringing with it a golden sparkle that made the air around him as heady
as French champagne.  Now he reminded her of a porcelain statue hidden
away in a church niche.

"At least he had a family."  Concern for Nora, as well as frustration
at his inability to get through to her, had Quinn trying again. "People
who loved him unconditionally.  Without hesitation."

As he had come to love her.  Unfortunately, before he'd had the chance
to share that astounding little news flash with Nora, they'd gotten
that telephone call and all Quinn's plans had flown right out the
window.  There'd be time later to tell her how he felt about her-about
the entire Joyce/Fitzpatrick clan--he'd kept reassuring himself over
the past two days.

After all, they were going to have a lifetime together.  If Kate could
be believed, several lifetimes, some of which they'd already
experienced.  And even if Nora's sister-in-law's reincarnation theory
proved false, Quinn found himself more than willing to buy into
Fionna's belief system.  Now, as the day of the funeral slowly,
inexorably dawned, he decided that an eternity spent with this very
special woman would definitely be no hardship.

Despite the sorrow of the moment' Quinn considered the fact that this
warm and generous woman had fallen in love with him the single miracle
of his life.

In the midst of death, we are life... Finn's words, spoken during the
funeral mass, kept ringing in Nora's ears as, still keeping with
tradition, Brady was carried on his last journey by his sons and
closest friends.  Although the day had dawned a soft one, Mother
Nature-our ancient Celtic weather goddesses--had cooperated, too,
causing the rain to cease before the mourners left the old stone
church.

Michael was at the front of the casket' Finn just opposite.  Finn had
come to resemble their father so closely Nora had heard parishioners
say how looking at the priest was like looking at Brady Joyce himself
thirty years ago.  John had been assigned the other corner, and at
Fionna's request, Quinn served as the fourth pallbearer.  Other men of
the village filled in the middle spaces, taking turns as they slowly
made their way along the road to the cemetery overlooking the sea.

Looking at her younger brother in his somber dark suit, standing nearly
as tall as Michael and a head taller than Finn, Nora was struck with
how close John was to becoming a man.  As she followed behind, with her
grandmother, her sisters and her son along with Kate, Jamie and Brigid,
she was reminded yet again that the family would soon have to say
farewell to another, although John's parting, thankfully, wouldn't be
permanent.  But she knew that once he went off to university, he'd
change.  The family would change.

She sighed as she glanced over at Mary, clad again in the unrelieved
black she'd mostly abandoned after her little midnight chat with Quinn.
Everything was changing.  Sometimes, it seemed, too fast.  This time
next year, Mary would be gone, as well, hopefully to school rather than
marriage.

And as if Nora didn't have enough to worry about, just when her
concerns regarding the testosterone-driven Jack had begun to lessen,
her sister had returned from the filming at the lake with the
announcement that she wanted to be an actress.

Nora still hadn't made up her mind how she felt about that, and
although she'd intended to ask Quinn more about the movie business, her
father's death had prevented them from having any private time to talk
about anything personal.

"Are you all right?"  she asked Fionna, who was walking beside her.
Although Nora had suggested her grandmother ride in a car to the
cemetery, she'd insisted on making her way on foot with the others.

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances, I suppose."  She
did, indeed, look remarkably hale for her age, despite the sorrow that
had created new lines in her face.  "It's not right, outliving your
child."

Nora's dark and guilty thoughts flitted immediately to Rory.  "How do
you bear it?"  she asked, unconsciously reaching out to take her son's
hand.

"Faith," the elderly woman answered without hesitation.  "I keep
reminding myself that's not my child in that wooden box.  My darling
Brady is in heaven with his own dear da.  And his poor little brother
Liam and his sister Katherine, as well."

Liam, Nora knew from family history, had died of a burst appendix
shortly after a twelfth-birthday celebration at the beach.  At the
time, his pains had been tragically misdiagnosed as too much cake and
ice cream.  Nora's aunt Katherine had died peacefully in her sleep the
previous winter.

"And, of course," Fionna added, "most importantly, he's finally
reunited with his darling Eleanor, which should be cause for
celebration here and in heaven."

Although Nora hoped her gran was right' she couldn't stop the barrage
of self-recriminations.

They reached the gates of the cemetery where Castlelough residents had
been laid to rest for more than five hundred years.  Weaving their way
past lofty high stone Celtic crosses adorned with has-relief twining
interlacings and spirals and ponderous gray tombstones, some of the
names and dates worn away by wind and weather, they continued beneath
mercurial gray clouds to the Joyce family plot.

A grave had been opened for Brady beside that of his wife.  when she
saw the marble stone he'd bought so recently waiting to be set into
place, Nora had to choke back a sob.

The men set the casket on the ground and came to stand with the rest of
the family.  Although he was still concerned about Nora, Quinn took
heart that when he put his arm around her waist, she did not move away.
That she felt like stone beneath his touch was less encouraging.

Finn concluded the graveside service, speaking as he had during the
mass in Irish, which to Quinn's untutored ear was incomprehensible.  As
soon as the gathered had made the obligatory sign of the cross, Fergus,
Brady's longtime pub companion, stepped forward and began to sing.

It was a song like none Quinn had ever heard.  Performed solo and
without accompaniment, the elderly man's voice actually became an
instrument in itself, the lyrics and meter as fluid as the curling
lines carved into the surrounding crosses.  Fergus stood as still as
those silent stones, his gaze directed over the cliff, looking out to
the sea.  Or, Quinn thought, toward eternity.

Below them a herd of white horses suddenly appeared from the mist to
gallop through the frothy white surf at the sand's edge, looking like
the ghost stallions from last year's book.

While the Irish lyrics rode the breeze like sea birds, wheeling,
diving, climbing even higher into the salt-tinged air, the singer's
expression remained absolutely detached from the obvious emotional
content of his song.

Quinn was obviously not the only one enthralled.  Tears streamed
unashamedly down female cheeks, and a few male ones, too, as the
mesmerizing singing continued, constantly changing, seemingly
improvised variations on a theme.

And then, suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the plaintive tune
ended, and the spell was broken.

"Lord, that was amazing," Quinn murmured to Nora, who'd continued to
stare at the gaping dark hole all during Fergus's performance.

"It's se annos singing," John volunteered when his sister failed to
respond.  "It's mostly the old men out here in the west, who speak the
language more naturally--not just learning it in school--who know how
to do it properly.  But it's becoming popular among the young, too.  I
have a friend who's been taking lessons and hopes to make his living
performing with a group."

"My son and Fergus occasionally performed together," Fionna informed
him.  "At fairs and weddings and the like."

"That must have been something to hear," Quinn said, wishing too late
that he'd thought to at least tape-record Brady telling his stories.
"Brady with his tales and Fergus with his singing."

"Aye.  There were quite a few times when they paid for the seed
potatoes.  My son may not have been much of a farmer.  But in his own
way, he supported his family as best he could."

Quinn heard another choked sound from Nora.  Unlike most of the others,
her eyes remained dry, and he wondered at the battle she must be waging
within herself to rein in her tumultuous emotions so tightly.

They drove back to the farm, Quinn sitting on one side of Nora in the
back of the undertaker's limousine, Rory on the other.  Somehow she
managed to carry on a conversation with her young son, agreeing that
yes, the flowers had been truly lovely, yes, wasn't it fortunate that
Brady had thought to buy that lovely marble headstone, and yes, wasn't
the singing the loveliest anyone had ever heard Fergus perform.

She was saying all the right words, answering at all the right times,
but when he exchanged a glance with Kate, who was sitting with her
children on the seat opposite them, Quinn knew they were thinking the
same thing.  That Nora's mind--and her heart--had disengaged.

If he'd hoped to get an opportunity to talk with her any time soon, the
crush of people who'd returned to the farm for the after-funeral supper
forestalled those plans.  Quinn found himself constantly being cornered
by villagers wanting to know all about the filming.

Had he seen the Lady?  Did he believe in her existence?  And even
occasionally, though not nearly as often as in America, how much money
could a person make from writing one of those books?  They were all
questions he'd been asked numerous times, and under normal
circumstances, he wouldn't have minded the constant interruptions.  But
these were far from normal circumstances.

Once, when he ducked into the kitchen to retrieve another platter of
ham at Fionna's request, he'd found himself cornered by a woman who
introduced herself as Mrs.  Sheehan and informed him that her butcher
shop had just gotten in a nice supply of French pate.

"That's good to know," he answered obligingly, wondering why she felt
moved to share this bit of information.

"I just thought you'd want to keep it in mind," she said, glancing
across the room at Nora, who was nodding in seeming agreement to
something Father O'Malley was saying.  Quinn, who'd come to know her
well, could tell that her mind was somewhere else.  Back at the
cemetery?  Or, dammit, he thought with building frustration, back on
the road where Brady had died alone?

"In case you and Nora will be planning a formal wedding supper," the
woman tacked on.

Quinn could only stare at her, not that surprised

I by her mention of a possible marriage, but at her inappropriateness
in bringing up the subject on the day Nora's father was buried.

"Or perhaps I should be discussing this with Nora," she suggested,
looking as if she was about to do exactly that."

"No.  I'll discuss it with her at a more opportune time."

When he tried to move away, she sidled back in front of him.  "I could
be getting fresh pheasants, as well."

He was wondering if he was going to have to resort to physical force
when Kate suddenly appeared by his side.  "I was hoping, Quinn, you
could help me carry in some trays from Mrs.  Duggan's car.  I hurt my
wrist riding yesterday," she lied blithely, "and the trays are quite
heavy."

"No problem."  Nodding a brisk goodbye to the now-frowning Mrs.
Sheehan, Quinn made his escape.  "if you weren't a married woman and if
everyone in Castlelough wasn't here to witness it," he murmured after
they'd left the kitchen, "I'd kiss you, Kate O'Sullivan."

"You definitely had the look of a man who needed rescuing.  Mrs.
Sheehan is a bit of a harridan, but I suppose she means well enough."

"She was trying to sell me pate.  For my wedding supper."

"Ah."  She looked up at him.  "And does Nora know about this yet?"

"The goose liver?  Or the wedding?"

"You're definitely an Irishman, Quinn.  I swear you're getting better
and better at avoiding a direct answer.  What would I be caring about
pate?  what I'm curious about is whether or not you've proposed to our
Nora."

"It's complicated," he said, hedging.

She followed his gaze across the room to where Nora was now talking
with Brendan, from The Rose.  "Love usually is," she remarked sagely.
"But when it's right--as it is with you and Nora--it's well worth the
risk."

Concerned that if she could see in all the dark corners, she might warn
Nora against him, Quinn was grateful when someone on the other side of
the room called out to her, effectively forestalling his need to
respond.

Finally the crowd began to disperse.  Unfortunately Nora seemed to have
disappeared, as well.

"The last I saw, she was in the parlor, with Devlin Monohan and his
fiancee," Fionna, who was wrapping the multitude of leftovers in white
waxed paper, told Quinn when he went searching for her.

"Devlin's already gone," Mary offered, looking up from cutting slices
of breast off a roasted hen.  Her eyes were weary and red-rimmed.
"About twenty minutes ago."

"Did you try upstairs?"  This from Sheila Monohan, who'd stayed behind
to help with the cleaning up.  "She looked as if she might have had a
headache.  Perhaps she decided to have a little lie-down."

Unfortunately that suggestion proved to be as fruitless as the
others.

"It's my guess she's gone to the lake," he told Kate after learning
that Nora had asked her sister-in-law to stay at the house with the
children for a time.

"She's always found comfort there before," Kate agreed.

"Will you stay with the kids until I can bring her home?"  Quinn did
not find it at all unusual to be asking such a question--as if he'd
assumed the role of the man of the house-until he saw her faint
smile.

"Of course."  Her eyes filled with affection.  "All night, if need be.
And tomorrow, as well, if it comes to that.  You're a good man, Quinn.
Nora's an extremely fortunate woman to have you in her life."

"I'm the fortunate one."  He plowed a hand through his hair, worried
that guilt may have caused Nora to believe she didn't deserve a second
chance at happiness.  Even more worried that he still might do
something to screw up what they had together.  "I just hope I can get
through to her."

"if anyone can, it will be you."  She went up on her toes and kissed
his cheek.  "Good luck."

"Thanks."  Taking hold of her shoulders, he kissed her smooth fragrant
cheek in turn.  "I wouldn't object if you'd burn a candle, or do a few
twirls with your daughter in the circle of stones, or whatever you
druid witches do to cast your love spells."

She laughed at that, a rich throaty sound that lifted a bit of the
gloom from the day.  "And didn't you already cast your own love spell,
Quinn?  That night you first stepped into Nora's parlor?"

She patted the cheek she'd kissed, rubbing at the faint smear of pink
lipstick.  "Now, you'd best be getting to your lady.  And don't worry
about Nora's car.  We'll send someone to fetch it."

As he drove down the twisting narrow road to the lake--or Nora--Quinn
tried to remember a time when he'd been more nervous and came up
totally blank.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dreamers and Believers

Nora sat alone on the bank of the lake, looking out over the black
satin water, thinking back to the time she'd been in this private place
with Quinn and explained to him the old Irish saying, ciunas gan
uagineas.  Quietness without loneliness.

Well, it had certainly never been more quiet.  There wasn't even a
nighttime breeze to sigh through the reeds or ripple the glassy waters.
There were no cheerful clicks of crickets, no deep croaks of bullfrogs
calling for their mates.  The clear April night was almost eerily
still.  But for the first time in her life, Nora felt absolutely
devastatingly alone.

She reached into the pocket of her black dress and pulled out a small
smooth stone inscribed with ogham.  Kate had given her the stone this
morning before Brady's funeral mass.

"It's a wishing rune," she'd explained as she'd curled Nora's fingers
around the black stone.  "I know you feel as if you've left things
unsettled with Brady, Nora.  If you open your heart, this stone will
help you contact him."

In truth, Nora hadn't really believed that at the time, but not wanting
to hurt her sister-in-law's feelings and knowing the gesture was born
out of love, she'd slipped the stone into her pocket and promptly
forgotten it.

Not surprisingly Kate hadn't been the only one to offer Nora some gift
of the heart.  Once they'd returned to the farm after the interment,
her grandmother had pulled her aside and offered a gilt-edged holy card
depicting a pretty young nun with gentle loving eyes.

"Pray to Sister Bernadette," Fionna had urged.  "Open your heart, Nora,
darling, and Bernadette will make a miracle."

"Open your heart," Nora murmured now as she drew her knees up to her
chest and rested her cheek on them.  Pain was an anvil, pressing down
on her chest, crushing that aforementioned heart.  "And doesn't that
sound simple?"

It should have been.  Hadn't her mother told her that her strength--and
her weakness--had always been her generosity of spirit?  Her
willingness to let her emotions overrule her head, even when it could
lead to heartbreak?

She closed her eyes and pressed the hand holding the rune hard against
her breast, as if subconsciously hoping it could melt the ice that
seemed to have filled all her empty places.

"Oh, please."  The whispered words were part plea, part prayer.

When she heard a sound, like footfalls on wildflowers, Nora opened her
eyes again and looked up.  The moon was rising, casting the castle that
brooded over the lake in a ghostly silvery light.

"Da?"  when her father suddenly appeared, walking out of the moonlit
mist, looking as he did when she'd been a girl, Nora was certain she
must be hallucinating.  Hadn't she read that a lack of sleep combined
with emotional distress could play havoc with your mind?

"It's not your imagination, Nora, darling," the wonderfully familiar
voice assured her.  "It's your prodigal da."

He was bathed in a shimmering light that made him look as if he was
surrounded by dancing moonbeams.  "Oh, Da," she said, barely managing
to push the words past the painful lump that had taken up residence in
her tight throat.  "I'm so sorry."

"Now what would me favorite girl have to be feeling sorry for?"

"For losing my temper."  She sniffled just as she had that long-ago day
she'd fallen off her pony for the first time.  "For saying those
dreadful things to you."

"Now didn't I know you were upset?"  he asked blithely.  "And wasn't
that because of my own foolishness in the first place, thinking I could
trick you into getting Rory a pony?"

"I'm keeping the mare."

"I know."  His grin shone like a beacon in the dancing silvery light.
"I do believe the Lady's going to be having to put up with a rival for
your son's attention."  Nora smiled at that.  "Aye.  I believe you're
right."  Then she sighed and shook her head.  "If only I'd agreed
sooner, we'd not have exchanged hard words, and you'd not have been
walking all the way into the village to The Rose, and--"

"Nora.  Darling."  His voice wrapped around her like a warm woolen
shawl.  "You're taking too much responsibility on those lovely young
shoulders again.  I love you, daughter.  You were my joy from the
moment you were born, the light of my life.  And ever since my dear
Eleanor passed on, you've been my anchor, just as your mam was before
you.

"But as God has taught us, Nora, to everything there is a season, and a
time to every purpose under heaven."

"A time to be born, and a time to die," she murmured the familiar
words.  The passage from Ecclesiastes had always been a favorite of her
father's,

which is why Finn had chosen to recite it to the mourners who'd
gathered at the hilltop ceremony this morning.

"A time to weep, and a time to laugh," Brady continued, his voice
ringing out over the hillsides as if he were telling a tale to the
multitudes.  "A time to mourn, and a time to dance."

"I don't want to argue with you, Da," Nora countered softly.  "But I
don't really feel like laughing right now."

"Ah, but you will, Nora.  And that's the point of my wee tale.  I wept
like a babe after your poor mother died--"

"I didn't know that."

"Well, didn't you have enough to deal with?  Without having to see your
da bawling his eyes out and keening into his pillow every night so as
not to wake the rest of his family?

"But my children are now almost grown, all but Celia, and I have not a
single doubt that you and Quinn will raise my youngest daughter as if
she's your own dear girl.  Everything's all settled now, don't you see?
You have a fine man you love..."

"I do, indeed."  Her voice was a little stronger.

"And isn't that obvious to anyone with eyes?  And, to continue my
point, that very same man loves you back--"

"He hasn't said that."

"Jaysus!"  The exclamation was expelled on a hearty laugh.  "Isn't it
bad enough you interrupt your poor old da when he's alive?  Can't you
be letting him finish a sentence after he's passed on?  It seems, if my
memory isn't failing me, that Ecclesiastes mentions something about a
time to keep silence."

Despite the grief that had taken hold of her heart these past days,
Nora found herself smiling back at him.  "I'm sorry.  Of course I want
to let you finish."

"Well, now, as I was trying to say, before I was interrupted, Quinn
Gallagher might not have said the words Out loud yet.  But it's obvious
you're holding his heart in your hands, darling.

"And although I'm not overly fond of admitting I could be wrong about
anything, mind you, I'll have to say that I misjudged the Yank.  He's a
good man, Nora.  He'll make you a good husband.  And a fine father for
the children."

"Aye.  You know that, Da.  And I know that.  I believe even Rory and
poor dear Maeve understand it, too But that doesn't change the fact
that Quinn's still planning to leave Ireland next week."

"Now don't you be worrying about that.  The pope will be taking back
Saint Patrick's sainthood before Quinn Gallagher chooses a lonely life
in America over a full and loving one with my eldest daughter here in
Ireland.  Can't I recognize a love struck man when I see one, having
been one me self

"The point to my little narrative, Nora, is that you can begin building
your own family now.  And I'm finally free to be with my own darling
Eleanor, don't you see."  He smiled again, that dazzling infectious
smile that everyone had always said could charm a leprechaun out of his
pot of gold.  "I love you, daughter.  I always have and I always
will."

Tears clogged her throat, filled her eyes.  "I love you, too, Da.  And
I always will."

"Stan agat," he murmured as he bent to kiss her cheek.

"Stan leat," Nora answered her father's final farewell in the language
of her roots.  Her heart.

And then he faded away, like misty morning fog.  Just when Nora thought
Brady was truly gone for good, something drew her gaze to the far side
of the lake.  It was her parents walking hand in hand over the moonlit
velvety hills.

She touched her fingertips to her cheek, felt the lingering warmth and
knew that her father's visit had been no hallucination.

A time to every purpose under heaven.  With her father's words ringing
in her ears, Nora buried her face in her hands and finally allowed
herself to weep.

When he saw her sitting in the moonlight, rocking back and forth in the
age-old rhythm of mourning, Quinn made yet another new discovery.  A
heart really could ache.

She was weeping into her hands.  Although the sobs were silent, from
the shaking of her shoulders, Quinn could tell they were violent.  He
put the blanket Kate had sent along with him on the ground, sat down
beside her and without a word pulled her into his arms.  He found it
encouraging that she came willingly, without a struggle.  Wondered how
it was that he found her trust even more amazing, and humbling, than
her love.

"That's it, baby."  He stroked her hair as she buried her face in his
shirt.  Drew her closer, kissed the top of her head.  "Let it all
out."

Nora clung to him unashamedly and allowed her tears to flow.  Although
her father's words of reassurance had helped ease her feelings of
guilt, the pain of loss remained.  A deep gaping wound she was all too
familiar with, having suffered it twice before.  Once when her mother
died, then when she lost Conor, who, despite all his faults, a part of
her--the young idealistic teenager who'd married the west's most
dashing man--would always love.

But she was no longer that starry-eyed virgin bride fresh from the
convent.  She was a woman.  A woman who'd had a child.  Who'd kept her
family together during bad times and good.  A woman who'd suffered
heartache and survived, like a piece of hand blown Castlelough crystal
hardened by its time in the flames.

She was a woman who loved.  A woman who was loved, she thought as she
ran her hands over Quinn's wide capable shoulders, by a remarkable man.
A man who, despite his protests to the contrary, possessed an infinite
capacity for caring.

When she was finally cried out, drained of anguish, tumultuous emotions
exhausted, she pulled away--just a little.

"Your shirt is soaked."

"It'll dry."  He brushed at her wet face with the back of his hand.
"Feeling better?"

"Aye.  I am."  She managed a faint smile at that and cuddled closer
again, luxuriating in the feel of his arms around her.  "When you were
researching the Lady, did you discover the Celtic concept of
Samhain?"

"What we call Halloween?"  Quinn had no idea where this conversation
was headed, but glad that she was finally talking again, he would have
followed it anywhere.  "Sure.  It's summer's end, supposedly the time
when the veil between the living world and the dead is the thinnest."

"Do you believe it's possible for that veil to part and allow the dead
to communicate with the living?"

Quinn thought about what Father O'Malley had told him about believing
in myriad mystical unseen things.  "I believe anything's possible.
Especially when you're talking about people with strong spirits."

"Like Da."

"Yeah."  He continued to stroke her face, thinking that he'd never
known a woman with skin as soft as Nora's.  When that idea had him
wanting to touch her all over, Quinn wondered what kind of guy could
even be considering seducing a woman on the day she'd buried her
father.  "Like Brady."

"He came to me."  She tilted her head back and looked up at him.
Lingering moisture still shone in her eyes.  "Here, at the lake.  To
tell me he loved me."

With his gaze on hers, he cupped her cheek in his palm.  "That's
certainly an easy thing to do."

A flare of surprise leaped into her eyes, a spark that quickly turned
into a warm pleased glow.  "Would you be saying what I think you're
saying?"

Quinn shrugged carelessly.  "Now wouldn't that depend on what you'd he
thinking?"  His smile spread slowly as his fingers slipped into her
hair.  "But if you're thinking that I was telling you that I love
you--" he bent his head and touched his lips to hers "--I suppose you'd
be correct."

The words Nora had longed to hear were like a prayer against her lips,
the soft tender kiss a promise.  She sighed and felt the last of her
tension draining away as the feather-light caress of his fingers at the
nape of her neck made her muscles go lax.

"I love you, Nora Joyce Fitzpatrick."  His deep voice thickened with
quiet seriousness.  "More than I could have ever imagined possible."

"More than you wanted, I'd be guessing."

He laughed at that, the explosive release of tension scattering ducks
from the reeds at lake's edge.  "A helluva lot more than I wanted. More
than you should have wanted."  The laughter died suddenly, as if turned
off at a tap.  His eyes turned serious.  "You realize, of course, that
I'm not a good bet.  I've no idea how to be a good husband or
father."

"You've been wonderful with Rory."

"He's a great kid.  But I'm afraid I'll let him down.  Afraid I'll let
you down."

"That couldn't happen."

"You sound pretty sure of that.  Considering you don't know anything
about me."

She framed his frowning face between her palms.  "I know that you're a
generous decent caring man.  I know that for some reason you don't
believe that."

"For good reason.  You keep making me out to be better than I am.  I'm
just a man, Nora.  With more flaws than most."

"Well, of course I understand you have flaws, Quinn.  I'm not a naive
schoolgirl like Mary, after all."  She sighed.  "But I suppose I can
get used to sleeping with a man who's out of sorts until his Second cup
of morning coffee and who steals the bed covers."

"You're not taking this seriously, dammit.  And I do not steal the
covers."  Actually, if she wanted to get technical, the only two nights
they'd spent together the sheets and blankets had ended up on the
floor.

"I'm afraid you do."  Another sigh.  "Which makes me wonder what I'll
be doing for warmth once winter comes."  She looked up at him through
her lashes, in a blatantly flirtatious way that made him want to laugh
and ravish her at the same time.  "Perhaps you'd be having a suggestion
about that?"

"One or two.  Both of them having to do with us providing our own
heat."

She smiled at that.  "Ah, and didn't I know you were a clever
resourceful man, Quinn Gallagher?"

He'd feared it would be harder.  Worried he'd have to struggle to get
past the barriers he'd watched going up since they'd gotten the news of
Brady's death.  Now he realized that it was Nora's own vast capacity
for love that caused those walls to come down before they'd been
completely erected.

Quinn wondered if his life would have been different if he'd met this
woman when he was younger.  Would her stunning ability to feel so
strongly, to care so deeply, have saved him all those cold and lonely
years?  Probably not, he admitted, recalling some old lyrics his mother
used to sing about not knowing what you had until you lost it.  In his
case, Quinn considered, he hadn't had a clue that anything was missing
from his life until he'd discovered it.  Discovered Nora.

He'd been like a man alone in the desert.  A man who, having suffered
through that arid time, could now fully appreciate the cool fresh taste
of an icy spring bubbling up in the oasis.

And speaking of tastes, it had been far too long since he'd drunk from
her lips.

"I don't want you to take this wrong."  He reached for her wrist, then
lifted her hand to press a kiss to her palm.  "But I want to make love
with you."

The touch of his mouth against her flesh was like a brand.  "Why would
you worry I'd be taking that idea wrong?  I think that would be in
order after a declaration such as you've just made."

"It's not exactly been your usual day."

"True enough.  But I've already lost someone I love."  She turned their
hands and kissed his knuckles.  "I'm not about to risk letting you get
away."

She was the most incredible woman he'd ever known.  And amazingly she
was his.

"How did I ever get so lucky?"  he murmured in honest wonder.

"Oh, now that's an easy one to answer," Nora said on a silvery
breathless laugh that made him think of fairies singing.  "Mam sent you
to me."

She was so wonderfully warm.  So soft.  So perfect.  "I love you."  He
kissed her long and lingeringly as his fingers began working their
magic on the pearl buttons that ran from her lace collar to her hem.
"Love you."  He pressed his mouth to the pulse at her throat and felt
her blood hum.  "Love you."  The more he repeated them, the easier, the
more enjoyable the words proved to be.  "And now that you've shared
that little bit of Irish magic with me, I've decided that I love your
mother, as well."

Her skin tasted like honey.  Her lips were like a banquet after a long
fast.  Quinn knew he'd never get enough of her.  Not if they were
granted a thousand lifetimes together.

They knelt in the center of the blanket, undressing each other slowly,
in unspoken agreement not to rush.  Quinn reined in his impatience--for
himself, as much as for her.  Nora tested the limits of her weakening
restraint--for herself as much as for him.  It was a night of promises,
of pledges both spoken and unspoken.  A night to remember.  To
cherish.

Gradually, as the moon rose in the cloud-scudded sky, casting its
mystical glow over the landscape, murmured words of love became
shimmering sighs.  Soft moans.  Hands that had lingeringly explored
warming flesh moved faster, harder, over curves and hollows.  Lips that
had tantalized earlier now tormented, capturing stuttering breaths from
lungs.

"I want you."  Quinn's fingers dug into her hips, as his eyes locked on
hers, which were huge and bright with a flame of hunger equal to his.

"Then take me.  Now," she gasped as she struggled to fill her lungs
with air.

"Not just for now."  He slid into her so easily they could have been
created one for the other.  "For eternity.  Forever."

"Aye."  Her lips skimmed over his face, her hands pulled him closer,
deeper.  "Forever."

As the moon rose higher in the black velvet sky, passion soared' taking
Nora and Quinn with it.

Much, much later, as he held her in his arms, luxuriating in the
aftermath of passion, Quinn viewed a flash out on the glassy waters of
the lake.  He told himself that the fleeting glimmer of green was
merely a trick of the moonlight.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Let Down the Blade

Despite her lingering sorrow over her father's death, Nora discovered
that Quinn's admission of love for her brought a whole new dimension to
her life.  For the first time in years she felt as young and giddy as a
schoolgirl, yet the happiness brimming in her heart was definitely that
of a woman.

The shooting for the movie was winding down, and although there seemed
a never-ending list of chores to do on the farm--including getting the
barn ready for Rory's mare--she spent those days at the lake, watching
the filming, all too aware that Quinn looked decidedly in his element
among those beautiful confident Americans.  She also couldn't help
noticing that he seemed terribly close to Laura Gideon,

but was surprised when the stunning actress treated her with genuine
warmth.

"Will you miss it?"  she asked him softly as they lay together in bed.
Although she still didn't want the children to know they were sharing a
room, Nora no longer had the willpower to spend the night alone when
the man she loved was sleeping next door.

"Miss what?"

Where to begin?  Despite his assurances, she worried about asking him
to make so many major changes to his fast-paced American life-style.
Would he honestly be happy living on a small farm in west Ireland? Away
from the bright lights of the world he was accustomed to?

"Hollywood, for one thing."

"Not in this lifetime."

He'd already determined that the movie business wasn't for him.  There
were too many delays for what he found ridiculous reasons, too many
compromises made on a daily basis, too much emphasis on marketing the
story rather than worrying about the message of the tale.  The only
reason he'd agreed to write the screenplay in the first place was to
maintain control over a story he cared a great deal about.
Unfortunately, control had proved to be an elusive thing in
Hollywood.

"The only good thing about working on this film was meeting you."

"What a lovely thing to say."

"It's the truth."  He ran his hands over her bare shoulders and down
her arms.  "I love the idea of living here in Ireland with you.  And
the family."  He wasn't about to admit that every so often, when he
wasn't looking, old fears would attack, like a skeletal hand reaching
out from under the bed to grasp at an ankle.  His life had changed,
Quinn assured himself several times a day.  He'd changed.

Nora's heart fluttered.  He was doing it again.  Heating her blood,
melting her bones.  "I love that idea, as well.  Although it's a shame
a famous man such as yourself is going to be writing his best-selling
novels in a barn."

He shrugged.  He'd written his first stories during his stint in the
navy, scribbling away in his bunk, lost in the world of his characters
while a noisy shipboard life went on around him.  Quinn figured Rory's
mare would undoubtedly prove a much quieter roommate than a bunch of
sailors.

"I'm only going to be using the tack room until my office gets built."
They'd designed it together, a traditional cottage with a thatched roof
situated on a piece of green meadow overlooking the standing stones
between the Joyce and O'Sullivan land and the sea beyond.  Quinn knew
writers who'd kill for such an imagination--stimulating location.

"Oh, that reminds me.  Robert Duggan brought by some paint samples
today.  I left them in the kitchen."

"You can get them later."  He snagged her wrist as she went to climb
out of the bed.

"But you'll be wanting--"

"To hell with the paint.  White's white.  I don't want to waste the
night trying to detect some imperceptible difference between Swiss
Coffee, French Cream and China Mist.  Let Duggan pick whatever he
wants."  He paused.  "Because what I want right now is you."

Nora turned back into the arms of the man she loved.  The man who, just
as her father had predicted and her mother had promised, loved her
back.

"I want you, too."  And as she lifted her face for his kiss, Nora's
carefully planned argument for Swiss Coffee immediately fled her
mind.

It was the day before May Day and the household was in an uproar.  The
postman had been bringing greeting cards all week for Celia, who was
preparing to receive her First Holy Communion.  And if that
long-awaited occasion wasn't enough, Mary had, indeed, been chosen
queen of the May Day dance, which raised the anxiety level of the
sixteen-year-old girl several notches.

As she baked the cakes for the party that would be held after mass at
The Rose, Nora assured Mary yet again that their mother's jade earrings
were perfect with her new evening gown.

"Aye.  Much more flattering than the gold hoops."  As Mary left the
room to one more time try on the lovely dress Quinn had bought her in
Derry, Nora heard a squabble break out in the parlor.  "Celia,

Rory, stop that bickering this minute!"  she called out.

Celia had proven insufferable all week, lording the money that had come
in all those first communion cards over her nephew.  And Rory, who was
growing impatient waiting for his horse to arrive, had been
uncharacteristically short-tempered.

"The girl's certainly all puffed up with herself," Fionna muttered from
her seat at the kitchen table where she was staging her battle plan to
confront the bishop on the steps of the church immediately after
tomorrow's mass to celebrate the Virgin.  "When I suggested she give
some of her money to the missionary fund, she began rattling on about a
Barbie playhouse."

"I suppose when you're seven years old, doll houses are more appealing
than saving pagan souls," Nora said mildly.  She glanced at the stack
of colorful flyers scattered over the top of the table.  "Are you
certain you want to confront the bishop in such a public place?"

"He won't answer my letters."  Fionna uncapped a black felt marker and
began printing tall block letters on the placard she intended to take
to the church.  "And he's been stalling for months.  This way he won't
be able to duck the issue."

Nora glanced over at Quinn, who was peeling potatoes for dinner.  She
still wasn't accustomed to a man in the house.  Especially in her
kitchen.

"If you intend to run out on me, today would definitely be the day to
do it."

"Not on a bet."  His grin was as warm as buttery summer sunshine and
made her heart feel as light as the helium balloons she'd ordered from
Monohan's Mercantile for Celia's communion celebration tomorrow.

She smiled back, so in love sometimes she thought her lips would freeze
into the foolish grin she saw on her face whenever she passed a mirror.
"Did you happen to have an opportunity to speak with John?"  she asked
quietly so as not to garner Fionna's attention.

"While we milked the cows.  And he promises to behave in the future.
But it's really not that big a deal, sweetheart."

She'd gone into John's room to put away some laundry this morning and
had discovered him downloading photographs from the Internet.  The
women, clad merely in the rosy flesh they'd been born with, were
supposedly, according to the caption, Babes from Britain.  Both Nora
and John had momentarily frozen; as the suggestive photos flashed onto
the screen, she hadn't known which of them was more embarrassed, her or
her brother.

"I don't want him getting into trouble," she said firmly.  "He has his
entire future ahead of him."  A scowl darkened her face and furrowed
her brow.  "A future that hopefully does not include any Knockers from
Nottingham," she muttered, remembering all too well the heading above
one particularly well-endowed platinum blonde.

"It's not so different from a kid sneaking his first illicit look at
Playboy.  All boys do it, Nora."  The brown potato skins were flying
into the sink.  "Just like all teenage girls probably check out romance
novels searching for the sex scenes."

She felt the color rise in her cheeks as she thought back to those
forbidden books so many of the postulates--herself included--had
nervously giggled over after the sisters had turned off the lights in
the convent dormitory.

"Mary has a best friend, Deidre McMann, who's about to become a mother.
The father is a college boy.  Or was until he had to quit school to
work on his parents' farm to support his new family."

"John's a bright kid.  And a responsible one.  You did a good job
raising him these past years.  I think it's time to relax and let him
take responsibility for his own life, let him make his own choices."

"I know."  She sighed, thinking of the fateful choice Kate had made
when she'd been John's age.  "But I do worry."

"Of course you do."  He leaned over and dropped a light kiss on her
lips.  "That's what I love about you."

Love.  It was, Nora thought, allowing him to ease her concerns, the
most glorious word in any language.

The following day, as Nora watched the processional of little girls
dressed up like brides of Christ in lacy white dresses and sheer
pearl-studded veils, she thought Celia looked like an angel.  Only the
little girl's white knuckles, as she clutched the rosary from Fionna
and the new white missal Quinn had surprised her with this morning,
revealed her nervousness.

Later that evening, when Mary came downstairs dressed for the dance and
looking as beautiful as a movie star, Nora thought once again how many
things had changed.  Some for the worse.  She couldn't help wishing her
da had been here to see his two daughters looking so lovely today.  But
then again, she considered, he probably had been watching.  Along with
her mam.

That thought, and the memory of their last conversation by the lake,
comforted her.

As she watched Parker Kendall pin the orchid corsage on Mary and saw
Quinn fix the young actor with a steely protective warning gaze, she
realized that most of the changes--and all of them having to do with
this man--had definitely been for the better.

Much later, as she lay in Quinn's arms floating on the ebbing tide of
spent passion, Nora said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God, her
mam and da, and even any of Kate's ancient Celtic gods and goddesses
who might be listening, for bringing such a special, loving man into
her life.

Nothing in Quinn's life had ever come easy.  He was also Irish enough
to feel superstitious about enjoying such uncommon domestic bliss.
Which is why, despite his love for Nora, despite the way he was
beginning to feel like a true member of her extended family, he
couldn't help continuing to feel a lot like Sydney Carton's tragic
character in A Tale of Two Cities.  The question was not if the damn
blade was going to drop.  But when.

It was the day after May Day, the day before he'd been scheduled to
return to California.  The day before he'd planned to leave
Ireland--and Nora--forever.  As he hooked up the horse trailer to the
Mercedes, which he'd already arranged to buy, he was amazed at how much
his life had changed in four short weeks.  How much he had changed.

"Talk about magic," he murmured as he drove to Kate's farm to pick up
Rory's mare.  The country, the family and most of all Nora had
definitely done a number on him.

Thinking of how excited Rory was going to be when he returned from his
trip to the village with Nora and discovered his pony in the stall,
Quinn experienced a feeling of satisfaction that was downright
paternal.

He moved on to thinking about having more children.  Not that he wasn't
already beginning to think of Rory as his own, but the idea of making
babies with his beloved redhead was more than a little appealing.

Picturing Nora round and ripe with his child had Quinn smiling as he
knocked on Kate's door.  The grin instantly faded as he viewed the
woman standing in front of him.

Her face looked as if someone had used it for a punching bag.  The
flesh was bruised and swollen, unattractive shades of blue and purple.
One eye was shut, her upper lip split open.  When he saw the purple
marks on her neck--an unmistakable imprint of Cadel O'Sullivan's
fingers--a cold fury swept through him.

"Where are the kids?"

She looked surprised by that question.  "They went with Nora into the
village.  She promised them ice cream."

"Then they weren't here when the son of a bitch did this to you?"

"No."  She closed her good eye for a brief moment.  "Thank God."

"I'll call Fionna," he said.  "And have her track down Nora and keep
the kids while I take you to the hospital."

"No!"  Kate backed away and held up her hands as if warding him off.
"I'll not be needing to go to any hospital."

"I don't think you're in a position to judge that."  His eyes skimmed
over her, noticing that she wasn't exactly standing upright.  "There's
a good chance you could have a cracked rib or--"

"I'd know if that were the case.  I'll be fine, Quinn Really, I just
need a little lie-down and-"

"You need a helluva lot more than that, dammit"

Furious at Cadel O'Sullivan, frustrated by Kate's continuing denial and
concerned for her safety, he dragged a hand through his hair and
considered his options.  Despite the fact that Kate handled thousand
pound horses every day, she was a slender woman who barely came up to
his shoulder.  It would be a simple matter just to lift her and carry
her out to the car.

The problem with that plan, dammit, was his reluctance to use bodily
force.  Especially since she'd already suffered too much at the hands
of her brutish husband.

"At least come with me to Nora's.  Where the family can keep you
safe."

She seemed to consider that as she gave Quinn a long look.  "All right.
Let me just get my bankbook.  It's upstairs."

Although he didn't want her to stay here an instant longer than
necessary, he nodded and came into the house, leaving the door open so
he could keep an eye out for O'Sullivan.  When she turned around to
leave the room, the first thing that caught Quinn's attention was the
gingerly way she was walking, which wasn't, he decided grimly, all that
surprising.  And then he saw the blood on the back of her flowered
cotton skirt.

"Wait a minute."  He caught her arms, carefully, gently, first one,
then the other, and eased her down into a chair, noting her grimace.
Strangely, rather than muddy his thoughts, his icy rage made his mind
as clear as Castlelough crystal.  He could kill O'Sullivan.  Without
hesitation.  Without an iota of remorse.  "The bastard raped you,
didn't he?"

She looked away in embarrassment.  And, he suspected, shame.  "A man
can't rape his wife."

Quinn's response to that was brief and vulgar.  Then he said, "All
right.  We'll skip the hospital.  But I'm calling Dr.  Flannery to meet
us at the Joyce farm and examine you.  It's important he collect
evidence so you can press charges."

She sighed wearily and shook her head, looking decades older than the
twenty-six Quinn knew her to be.  "You're not in America now, Quinn.
Things are different here.  And even if I'd be wanting to admit to
Sergeant O'Neill what a foolish woman I've been to marry such a violent
man, he wouldn't go rushing off to arrest Cadel."

Quinn crouched beside the chair, struggling with his gut-wrenching
emotions.  "Dammit, this isn't about what you did or didn't do, or
whether you made a mistake by marrying the guy, or staying with him
after discovering what he was really like.

"It's about a short-tempered bully who gets off on hitting women and
kids whenever he feels like it.  There's nothing you've done to deserve
this, Kate."

Her face pale as paper behind the bruises, she'd turned away,
pretending interest in the framed painting of three-times British Grand
National winner Red Rum hanging on the opposite wall.  Quinn put his
fingers gently on her chin and turned her face back to his.  "You don't
deserve it."

She closed her eye again.  "I suppose you're right.  And I'll see Dr.
Flannery, but I still won't call in the Garda.  This is a family
matter, Quinn.  I want to keep it that way."

"Fine."  And since he was almost a member of the family, Quinn was more
than willing to take the matter into his own hands.  "Now, where's the
bankbook?"  He made his tone sound calm, almost conversational,
designed to conceal his intentions.  "I'll go get it.  And whatever
other personal belongings you want to take for yourself and the
kids."

"The bankbook's taped behind a photograph of Jamie and Brigid on the
wall in my bedroom."  She went on to describe where he could find the
other things she'd be needing for the brief stay at her
sister-in-law's.

As he entered the bedroom that looked as if it had been attacked by a
horde of vandals, Quinn realized what had set Cadel off.  The man had
undoubtedly come back looking for money.  Money Kate seemed recklessly
willing to risk dying to protect.  Stepping over the clothes and
drawers that had been pulled out of the bureau and dumped onto the
floor, he retrieved the blue bankbook, determined to get her out of
here as soon as possible.

Forty minutes later she was lying in the small bed Nora had so recently
vacated, sipping a cup of stout tea that a concerned but briskly
efficient Fionna had brewed for her, waiting for the doctor to
arrive.

"I don't understand why you called Michael," she said to Quinn.

"I have to go into the village and I'm not about to leave you and
Fionna here alone in case your husband comes looking for you."

"An, isn't that just like a Yank," she murmured with a flash of the wry
humor he'd come to admire and enjoy.  "Rushing in to play John
Wayne."

"It's a dirty job."  Despite the circumstances, he grinned down at her.
"But someone's got to do it."

She laughed, as he'd meant her to.  Then immediately sobered.  "You're
going after Cadel, aren't you?"

He considered lying, then figured she'd obviously hear soon enough.
"Yeah."

"I'm not your responsibility."

"You're family," he said simply.  "And family takes care of its own."

He heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel and went downstairs to
let in Michael Joyce, who was followed by Dr.  Flannery.  The doctor,
Quinn thought, didn't look old enough to have graduated from high
school, let alone medical school.  Quinn wondered if that meant he was
getting old and decided it probably did.

That idea brought up another.  That his worst fears--of being too much
like his father--were about to be realized.  Had it been only this
morning that he'd foolishly believed he'd be lucky enough to grow old
with the woman he loved?  Now there was the unpalatable likelihood that
once again, a brutality was about to cost him any chance at
happiness.

But this was no time to be worrying about himself.  He'd deal with the
fallout of what he was about to do later.  First he had a score to
settle.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Hard Times

It was raining when Quinn arrived in Castlelough, and not a soft rain,
either, but a thick gray drizzle that matched his grim mood.  An anger
he'd forgotten he could feel was surging through his veins.  Memories
poured back, filling his mind like smoke, memories of his father's
beatings, his mother's screams, that horrifying night a nine-year-old
boy had leaped onto a brutal man's back in a futile attempt to stop an
assault that had ended with the bottle of gin coming down like a
sledgehammer on the back of his mother's head.

He could hear the thud as clearly now as when it had happened--a dull
muted sound like a melon falling out of the refrigerator and smashing
onto the floor.  He remembered the blood-so much of it, pouring out of
the back of her poor broken head, turning her blond hair crimson,
staining his hands as he tried to staunch the flow, drenching his shirt
as he'd knelt beside her and held her close like a broken doll.  Salty
tears had poured down his face, even though his father had always
whupped him harder whenever he'd cry, calling him a faggot sissy boy

And so, by age nine, Quinn had come not to expect anything good from
life.  He'd always been suspicious of anything that came too easily.
Such belief had allowed him to distance himself from reality during the
harsh years that had followed his mother's brutal murder.

He'd developed his own defense system--never trust, never let anyone
get too close, always be prepared to end a relationship if it
threatened to become personal.  The tactic had worked just fine for
years, allowing him to secure his feelings beneath a thick layer of
seemingly impenetrable ice.

The one thing he'd never counted on was coming to Ireland and meeting a
woman who possessed her own personal blowtorch.

He was going to have to tell Nora about his past, he realized.  Let her
know exactly what kind of man she'd be marrying.  And if she changed
her mind, well, hell, he'd get over it and move on.  The way he always
had.  No harm, no foul.

As he pulled up in front of the Irish Rose, Quinn wondered when he'd
become such a goddamn liar.

The buzz of convivial conversation stopped the instant Quinn opened the
oak door.  It didn't dwindle, table by table, bar stool by bar stool,
but ended abruptly.  Nearly every eye in the pub was on him.  The sole
exception was Cadel O'Sullivan, who was sitting in his regular spot at
the end of the long bar, hunched over a bottle of Bushmills malt.

"O'Sullivan."  Quinn's low voice was like an alarm siren in a room so
atypically quiet it would have been possible to hear a toothpick
drop.

Kate's attacker looked up, his gaze as flat and cold as a snake's.
"Well, well," he said scornfully, tossing back a shot of the whiskey
while meeting Quinn's stone-hard eyes.  "If it isn't the rich Yank
who's been screwing our women.  What the fock do you want,
Gallagher?"

"I want to talk to you.  Outside.  Where we won't risk breaking any of
Brendan's furniture."

"Ah."  The cruel mouth twisted in a smirk.  "So, it's a fight you'd be
wanting to start up with me, not a conversation at all."  He filled his
glass from the bottle and tossed back another long swallow.

"I'd say you're the one who started the fight," Quinn said with a
reasonableness he was a long way from feeling.  "When you decided to
treat Kate like a punching bag."

A low murmur spread across the room.  The cold smile was instantly
replaced by a dark scowl.  "You'd be having no right interfering in the
personal business between a man and his wife."

"Even if I felt that way, which I damn well don't, I figure I'm
entitled.  Since your wife is Nora's sister-in-law, and I'm going to be
marrying Nora."

"So the boys have been telling me."  The smirk was back, testing,
taunting.  Quinn couldn't decide whether Cadel O'Sullivan was the
stupidest man he'd ever met or merely had a death wish.  "Weren't we
all sitting right here discussing the interesting fact that only a
month ago, the widow Fitzpatrick was going to have to leave her farm
for the city?"

He gave a wink that was rampant with sexual innuendo.  "Looks as if
lifting her skirt and fucking a rich Yank solved that little
problem."

Quinn saw red.  Literally.  It swirled in front of his eyes like his
mother's blood so many years ago.  The next thing he knew he was
pulling Cadel from his bar stool.

"You have exactly two seconds to apologize," he ground out.  "And then
I'm going to kill you."

"It'll take a better man than you to do that, Yank."  At the same time
Cadel spat in Quinn's face he shot a mean right jab into Quinn's gut.

The meaty fist was like a cudgel.  Quinn felt his bones rattle, the
breath leave his lungs.  The scarlet veil in front of his eyes
darkened. And with a mighty roar, he was on the Irishman, his balled
fists pounding, bare knuckle against bone, left, right, left, right,
each blow landed for Nora.  For Kate.  For Jamie and Brigid.

Onlookers scattered, rescuing pints as they scrambled to the edges of
the room to watch the fight.  O'Sullivan might be bigger, but his
strength was brutish, unschooled, his blows random and unplanned.

"Come on, O'Sullivan," Quinn taunted, "you can do better than that." He
feigned to the right, dodging a wild roundhouse punch.  "I guess you're
a lot more used to beating up defenseless women and children than you
are taking on someone closer to your own size.

His opponent's answering roar was like a wounded lion.  He lowered his
massive head like a buffalo and charged, butting Quinn in the ribs,
which caused them both to fall to the hand-pegged floor in a tangle of
arms and legs.

They rolled over and over, landing random wild blows, any boxing
technique Quinn might have learned during his days in the navy lost in
the heat of the escalating battle.

Cadel managed to push himself unsteadily to his feet long enough to
pick up a chair, lift it high, then bring it down in the direction of
Quinn's head.  It landed on his shoulder, instead, then a booted foot
slammed into the ribs the Irishman's thick head had already pounded.
Grabbing it, Quinn managed to pull the giant down for second time.

"She's not worth this trouble," Cadel taunted yet again as he aimed a
left uppercut at Quinn's jaw.  "Didn't Conor Fitzpatrick tell everyone
that his wife should have stayed in the convent for all the good she
was in bed?"

A muffled oof escaped his split lip as Quinn landed a blow on the
brute's nose.  The sound of bone breaking was followed by a string of
curses as crimson blood gushed.  "Or maybe the woman's picked up a few
tricks since then."  He swiped at the blood with the back of his hand
and just barely managed to evade the follow-up blow.  "Maybe, when I
finish here with you, I'll pay a little visit to the farm and try out
the red-haired little slut me self

Quinn had been trying, with lessening success, to keep some faint
vestige of control on his temper.  But the vulgar threat caused the
last thread to break.  Hatred he'd spent a lifetime trying to ignore
exploded inside him, like red-hot lava bursting forth from a volcano.
He straddled O'Sullivan, forced him onto his back and began pounding.
And pounding.  And pounding.  His fists fast and brutal.

He had no idea when the bloodthirsty calls of encouragement turned to
cries of concern.  He remained unaware of Brendan placing the emergency
call to his cousin, shook off the hands that grabbed at his sleeves.
All Quinn knew was that this man represented everything he'd ever hated
in his life, and he was not going to stop until he'd achieved
revenge.

For his mother, for Kate and for a nine-year-old boy who'd tried his
best to save a life and had never forgiven himself for having failed.

In the end it took five of them--the bartender,

Brendan's cousin, Sergeant O'Neill, and three other strapping men whose
strength bespoke a lifetime of cutting hay and peat, to drag this Yank'
who seemed to have gone berserk, off the nearly unconscious bully.

"You'll be killing him," the bartender told Quinn.  "That was the
idea."  Quinn bent down, put his bloody hands on his knees and drew in
a deep breath, realizing his error when his ribs burned.

"Nora would never forgive me if I had to put you away in jail for
manslaughter," the sergeant said.  "We'd best be getting you to the car
so I can drive you to casualty and have you seen to."

Quinn wanted to object to that suggestion.  Intended to object.
Unfortunately he failed to see O'Sullivan stagger to his feet.  A blow
like a boulder falling from a cliff landed against the back of Quinn's
head.  His already wobbly knees gave out.  Then everything went
black.

"You can't be serious about this."  Nora watched, stunned as Quinn
emptied out the dresser, literally throwing clothes into the
suitcase.

"I'm sorry."  Christ, talk about an understatement.  The problem was,
there were absolutely no words for what he was feeling.  Nothing he
could say that would make either one of them feel any better.  "I tried
to warn you."  Sweaters tumbled on top of briefs, socks tangled with
jeans.  His shirt was spotted with blood, some his, some O'Sullivan's,
but Quinn wasn't going to take time to change.  "I told you I wasn't
any good for you."

"That's not true."  She was not going to resort to tears, Nora vowed,
even if she thought that the age-old feminine ploy might get him to
change his mind.  She didn't want him to look back on this day and
believe he'd been trapped.

"You are good for me."  She wanted to touch him even more than she
needed to weep.  Nora resisted both urges.  "What you did in The Rose
for Kate--"

"I almost killed a man."

"No!"  She shook her head.  "You wouldn't have done that, Quinn."

"I would have.  If they hadn't pulled me off him."

"You were angry.  At what he'd done to Kate.  And rightfully so.
There's been many a time I've wished Cadel O'Sullivan dead."

"You just don't get it, do you?"  He stopped on his way to the bathroom
to retrieve his shaving kit and turned toward her, his dark eyes as
bleak and empty as a tomb.  "We're not talking about wishing, Nora.
We're talking about me pounding a man to a bloody pulp with my
fists."

"You weren't the only one doing the hitting."  She reminded him of the
lump on the back of his head and the cracked rib the X ray had
revealed.  "And you didn't start it."

"Every man in that pub knew I didn't go there to have a conversation
with O'Sullivan.  I went there to beat his goddamn brains out."

"Which would be difficult to do, since I don't believe he has any."

He shook his head, ignoring the pain that hit like lightning behind his
eyes.  "You're not taking this seriously, dammit."

"Of course I am.  I take it seriously indeed when the man I love, the
man who says he loves me," she said pointedly, "tells me he's walking
away from what we've made together."

"I do love you."  The one thing he refused to do was lie, even though
it might have made it easier on both of them.  "More than I ever
thought possible.  And I know, if I live to be a hundred, I'll never
feel about any other woman the way I feel about you.

"Not that I'd want to be arguing with you, Quinn, but you have a
strange way of showing such love."

"I know it seems that way."  His head was spinning.  Deciding he'd
better sit down--just for a moment before he fell down.  Quinn sank
onto the mattress.

"But believe it or not, it's because I love you that I'm leaving.
Before I end up hurting you.  Or Rory.  Or one of the other kids.  I'm
a violent man, Nora.  I come from violent blood stock  I thought I
could overcome my past.  I thought I had."

He dragged both hands through his hair, flinching as his fingers
brushed against the lump Cadel had raised with that heavy bottle of
Murphy's stout.  "Obviously I was wrong."

"No."  On this point, Nora was very clear.  "I have no words to tell
you how sorry I am about your mother."

He'd told her his life story while she'd driven him back to the farm
from the hospital.  Since the doctor had refused to release him if he
intended to drive with a head injury, Quinn had reluctantly allowed the
casualty-department nurse to call Laura, who'd followed in the
Mercedes.  His former lover was now waiting downstairs in the front
parlor to take him to the inn until tomorrow's flight back to
America.

Nora had kept silent during the telling of the horror tale, and Quinn
knew he'd never forget the sight of those silent tears falling on the
slender hands gripping the steering wheel.

"What happened to you when you were just a lad was every bit as much a
crime.  No child should have to suffer so, Quinn.  And it breaks my
heart that you had no adults in your life to protect you from such
brutality."  She pressed crossed hands against that tender saddened
heart.  "As you protected Kate and Jamie and Brigid today."

He knew where she was going.  And didn't buy it.  "What I did--using
violence to respond to violence--isn't the answer."

"Not under usual conditions.  But perhaps it's the only thing a man
like Cadel understands.  It will be a long while before he raises his
hand to his wife again."

Those words caught his reluctant attention.  "She's not staying?"  "No.
But although we have divorce now in The land, it's not an easy thing.
Even in the best of circumstances, with parties agreeing, it takes five
years of separation.  Which doesn't matter to Kate," she said sadly,
"since she's understandably in no hurry to get involved with another
man."

"She deserves better."

"Aye."  Nora sighed and wondered again what might have happened if only
she'd been able to convince Kate to write that letter to Andrew
Sinclair so many years ago.  "She does, indeed."

"And so do you."

"So we're back to your misguided belief that you're not good enough for
me?"

"Doesn't it always come back to that?"  Wasn't that why he'd tried like
hell to stay away from this woman in the first place?  "Did I tell you
I saw some distant cousin of mine at the horse fair?"

"No."  She'd been waiting, but he'd remained silent on the matter. "But
Michael mentioned he'd introduced you to a Gallagher he knew from
Connemara."

"Patrick Gallagher.  A farmer.  And bootlegger."

"Well, now, making poi ting "S not such a crime in that part of the
country," she said, misunderstanding the acid in his tone.  "Well, of
course, it is a crime, but--"

"I know."  He lifted a hand that felt as if it weighed fifty pounds.

It was more than the fight that had him feeling dead on his feet, Quinn
knew.  He'd certainly had his share of brawls in his younger days, and
they'd never left him so wasted.  And it wasn't just that he was older.
It was, Quinn thought, because he was so emotionally drained.  He felt
as if he'd slashed his wrists and let all his feelings drain out with
the blood.

"Michael already explained all that.  My point was, that looking into
his face was like looking into a goddamn mirror."

"The Gallaghers I've known over the years have always had strong
features.  And didn't Gram say that she grew up with a boy in Donegal
who had the look of you?  That's not so unusual, Quinn."

"I suppose not.  But the point is, that got me to thinking about
bloodlines.  My bloodlines."

It took her a moment.  And when she understood what he was saying,
Nora's heart lurched so painfully she was amazed she was able to keep
from crying out.

"Oh, Quinn."  She knelt beside him, her hand on his thigh, her green
eyes as pained and earnest as he'd ever witnessed them.  "You're not
like one of Kate's horses.  Like the mare you bought Rory.  You're a
man.  You have free will, the intelligence to make choices.  Just
because your father was a cruel and brutal man..."

"Who used his fists to settle arguments," he reminded her pointedly as
he looked down at his knuckles, skinned and swollen from connecting
with the bones in O'Sullivan's face.

"No."  Her hair flew over her shoulders in a brilliant cloud as she
shook her head again.  "Don't you see he was like Cadel?  Just a bully
who finally met his match?"  She lifted his hand and pressed her lips
against the injured flesh.  "You're nothing like either one of them."

How he'd wanted to believe that!  "I can't take the risk."

"And isn't that for me to be deciding?"

"No."  It was his turn to shake his head.  Firmly.  Resolutely.  "It's
not easy raising children.  One day Rory, or one of his brothers or
sisters, if we were to be that lucky to have them, might do something
to piss me off.  Something that might cause me to strike out
instinctively.

"Or perhaps you and I might have an argument.  You can be a hardheaded
woman sometimes, Nora, and--"

"I know.  And I'll be trying to work on that."

"And you also have a habit of interrupting when a man's trying to make
a point.  "Although Quinn could find little humor in this discussion,
the memory of her doing the same thing that night in Derry when Brady
was trying to tell his tale, that night they'd made love for the first
time, almost made Quinn smile.

"It's a foolish point," she muttered.

"Not so foolish."  He looked down at their hands, still linked
together.  He brought her hand to his lips.

"I truly do love you, Nora.  And if I ever lifted a hand to you, I'd
want to kill myself."

"You'd never do such a thing."

"You can't know that.  For certain."

She lifted her chin in that way that always made him want to kiss her
silly.  "Aye.  I do.  Because I know you, Quinn Gallagher.  I'd stake
my life on that."

"Don't you understand?  That could be exactly what you'd be doing."
This time he did smile, but there was not an iota of cheer in it.  It
was, Nora thought, the saddest thing she'd ever seen.  Even sadder than
that thin white scar she now knew had been caused by his father's belt
buckle.

"No."  He released her hand and pushed himself to his feet.  "I'm not
going to take the chance.  I'm not going to let you take the chance."

That said, he gave her one last look fraught with so many emotions Nora
couldn't begin to catalog them all.  But none of them was the slightest
bit encouraging.

"I do love you," he stressed yet again, waning her to remember that one
vital point.  "I always will."

With that he was gone.  Out of her bedroom.  And her house.

Laura, who'd been waiting downstairs, paused in the parlor as Quinn
walked out to the Mercedes.  "I'm sorry," she said to Nora.

"I know."  Nora never would have thought she could feel a kinship with
such a glamorous movie star.  But then again, ever since the Americans
had come to Castlelough, she'd experienced a host of unfamiliar
unexpected emotions.  "But it doesn't change things now, does it?"

"Believe me, honey, he'll be back," Laura assured her.  "Quinn can be a
son of a bitch, but he's smart enough to know when he's hit the
jackpot."  Her judicious gaze measured Nora from head to foot.  "And
although I would have bet the farm against it when we first hit this
place, you turned out to be the treasure at the end of the guy's
rainbow."

That said, she flashed a smile that never failed to bedazzle her fans
and left the farmhouse, then climbed into the driver's seat of the
Mercedes.

Nora stood in the doorway as the car drove away, watching until it
turned the corner and disappeared behind the stone wall separating her
farm from Kate's.

He'd said he was leaving to keep from hurting her.  The ragged pained
sound that escaped her tightly set lips was half laugh, half sob.
Didn't he realize he'd done exactly that?  Couldn't he understand that
he couldn't have wounded her heart more if he'd taken down one of those
antique swords from the wall of The Rose and slashed her heart to
ribbons?

Covering her face with her hands, Nora finally gave in to the tears
that had been threatening since she'd arrived at the hospital and
discovered that the man she loved had retreated into his dark and icy
shell.  She had no way of knowing that as Laura drove toward
Castlelough, Quinn couldn't stop himself from believing that he was
leaving the best part of his life behind.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Find a Way Home

Quinn was gone.  Back to America.  Rory sat in his secret wishing place
and related the sad news to his best friend, who, now that the movie
people had left Ireland, was free to stop hiding beneath the water.

"I thought he was going to be my da," he told her.  He sighed.  "He
seemed to like me well enough.  At least he let me in his tent with him
on the father-and-son trek.  And he bought me Splendid Mane."

Rory did not have to explain to the Lady that he'd named the horse
after the one that had belonged to Manannan mac Lir, the ancient Gaelic
god.  The original Splendid Mane was said to be swifter than the spring
wind and, as was befitting the patron of sailors, traveled equally fast
over the waves of the sea as he did over land.

"I wouldn't think a man would be buying a pony for a boy he didn't
love.  But Jamie says perhaps he had so much money it didn't seem like
such a special thing."

Rory sighed again, drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his thin
arms around them and looked out over the darkening blue water.  Beside
him, Maeve whimpered.  Rory could tell that she missed the American
almost as much as he did.

A pony is a very special thing, the Lady assured him.

Rory wasn't as surprised as he'd been the first time she'd spoken to
him.  But this time her words didn't ease the worry that had been heavy
on his heart.

"I wish he hadn't left," he said again.  And sighed yet again.  "Mam's
been crying a lot.  Just like she did before the Americans came.  But I
don't think she's worried about moving away from the farm anymore.  I
think she misses Quinn, too."

He looked up at the Lady, lines of concern etched into his freckled
forehead.  "I've been worrying that perhaps I did something to make him
go away."

He couldn't think of what that might have been, but hadn't Tommy
Doyle's da left when Tommy had gotten the cancer?  Rory had heard his
grandfather Brady remark that Brian Doyle just couldn't deal with so
much trouble, but after Tommy had come back from Dublin, bald, but
cured, his da still hadn't returned.

"Perhaps some men aren't made to have families," he said, repeating
what his grandfather had told him about Mr.  Doyle.  "Perhaps, if it
weren't for me, Quinn would have married Mam.  And she'd he happy. Like
she was before he left to go back to California."

The American leaving had nothing to do with you, Rory Fitzpatrick.  The
Lady's golden eyes rested on him reassuringly.  Doesn't he have some of
his own ghosts to calm before he can be making a family?  You must be
patient.  He'll be back.

That said, she turned and disappeared beneath the water without so much
as a ripple, returning to her kingdom beneath the waves.

"Quinn will be back."  Rory poured milk from the pitcher into the
glasses that Celia had set on the table.  "Oh, darling."  Nora turned
from the stove, trying to decide whether it was kinder to let her son
continue to believe this or to dash his hopes with cold reality so he
could move on with his young life.  So they could all move on.  "I
wouldn't be counting on that," she said gently.  "He'll be back."
Rory's expression was, as it had been for the past two weeks,
confident.  "The Lady told me he just had some ghosts to get rid of
first.  Before he could be part of the family."

Nora's first thought was that it wasn't so strange that a boy who
talked to a lough beastie could so readily accept the idea of ghosts.
Her second thought was to wonder how Rory' could understand so well
that the man he kept insisting would be his father could have been so
haunted.

"I don't know what to say to that," she said honestly.  Having never
lied to her child, she wasn't about to start now.

"You don't have to say anything, Mam."  He finished pouring the milk
and put the pitcher back in the refrigerator.  Then he flashed a grin.
"We just have to be patient.  The Lady promised."

Half a world away Quinn sat on the deck of his rented house, looking
out over the ocean.  The white-capped water reminded him too much of
Nora.  But then, he thought grimly, everything reminded him of the
woman he'd left behind in Ireland.

"You realize, of course, that this is getting boring."

He glanced over at Laura, who was sitting beside him, her bare feet up
on the railing, long tanned legs displayed to advantage in a pair of
brief white shorts.  "Sorry I'm not a better host."

"Oh, don't apologize."  She took a sip of the finn blanc and smiled
sweetly over the rim of her glass.  "I've always admired your over
achieving spirit, darling.  And the way you've been behaving ever since
we left the 'auld sod' is by far the best example of a pity party I've
ever seen."

His only answer to that was a succinct curse.  He took a long drink of
the iced tea he'd made himself stick to the past two weeks, fearing
that if he started drinking he might never stop.

"Why the hell don't you just go to her?"  Laura asked, not for the
first time.  "Instead of continuing to make the two of you miserable.
Not to mention that poor kid--he's got to feel deserted."

Quinn didn't want to think about Rory.  It was bad enough picturing the
boy every night while he was trying to sleep, the image of that open
freckled face flashing with all the others he'd betrayed in some kind
of bizarre slide show in his mind.

"I explained all that."  It hadn't been easy to open up to her, to
share that story of his life yet again.  But he'd needed someone to
talk to.  And amazingly Laura was turning out to be a good friend.

"I know."  She sighed and shook her head.  "And I think it's about the
most ridiculous excuse for walking out on a woman I've ever heard."

"That's your opinion."

"True enough."  She put her feet back onto the deck and stood. Figuring
she was going into the house to refill her empty glass, Quinn turned
back toward the view of the sun-spangled water, which while admittedly
magnificent, was the wrong damn ocean.  He let his eyes drift closed.

Suddenly he heard a loud smack and felt a sharp sting on his cheek.  He
brought his hand to the burning skin and looked up at Laura.

"What was that for?"  he asked without rancor.

"It was a test."  Smiling, she raised her hand and delivered a slap to
his other cheek.  "You might call it a kind of scientific experiment.
Of nurture against nature, so to speak."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."  Although on some distant
level he thought he might.

"I hit you," she pointed out unnecessarily.  "And you didn't hit me
back."

"Hell, of course I didn't."  Oh yes, Quinn considered grimly, he could
definitely see where she was headed with this little bit of amateur
psychology.

"Isn't that interesting?"  Again she slapped him, this time with enough
force to turn his head.  "You'd think a man with such violent genetic
tendencies would feel the need to strike back."

"Laura, this isn't going to work."

"Oh?"  She arched one perfect blond brow.  "And why not?  I thought you
told me that you couldn't stop yourself from beating up that thuggish
wife-abusing Irishman?"

"That was different."

"How exactly?"

"You're nothing like O'Sullivan."

"Now there's a news flash."  She folded her arms.  "Neither, would I
venture a guess, is Nora Fitzpatrick.  Or her son.  Or, for that
matter, any of the other children."

When Quinn didn't--couldn't--answer, she put her hand on his arm.
"You'd never hurt them, Quinn.  Not in a million years.  I know it. And
I know that deep down inside, you know it, too."

"Then you know a helluva lot more about me than I know about myself."

"Your instincts weren't even there.  Your hand didn't even make a fist.
I watched," she said when he glanced down at his hand, as if to check
out the assertion firsthand for himself.  "You allowed your sadistic
son-of-a-bitch father to control the first thirty-five years of your
life.  You're too damn smart--and Nora is too special--for you to allow
him to control the next thirty-five."

The idea of spending those years with Nora was admittedly appealing.
Terrifyingly wonderfully appealing.

"I'll think about it."

She smiled, patted his cheek, which still bore the imprint of her
fingers, then kissed him.  "Why don't you do that, darling?"

Quinn Gallagher was a remarkably intelligent man.  Which was why it was
such a surprise to Nora that he could be so stupid about something so
basic.  So important.

She'd tried to be patient, tried to give him time to realize the
mistake he'd made, but with each passing day, she feared that the walls
that had begun to crumble during his time in Castlelough would begin
going up again.  Higher, this time.  And thicker.  Until there'd be no
way to breach them.  Which was why, three weeks after he'd left
Ireland, as she lay alone in her bed--the bed that now seemed
heartbreakingly empty--wearing the T-shirt Quinn had left in the
laundry, she realized what she had to do.

She was going to have to go to America and convince him that they were
perfect together.  And then, she considered, she'd tell him that she
was willing to leave Ireland and live in California with him.

"I understand it won't be easy," she told her family as they sat around
the table after Sunday mass.  "John, I understand that you'll not be
wanting to change your plans to go to university.  Nor should you."

"He'll be all right," Fionna assured her.  "I'll be watching out for
him.  And he can always come and visit you and the rest of the family
in California.  It's not as if your new husband won't be able to afford
the airfare," she said dryly.

Nora turned to her grandmother, refilling her teacup.  "Are you certain
you don't want to come?"

"I've lived more than eighty years on this farm, darling.  My roots are
sunk too deep into the peat to transplant.  And then, of course, I'd
not be wanting to give up my Bernadette campaign just when I've finally
piqued the Vatican's interest."

The letter from the Congregation for the Cause of Saints had arrived in
yesterday morning's post.  By evening Elizabeth Murphy, who considered
her post mistress job to be akin to town crier, had spread the word
throughout not only Castlelough, but also the entire county.  Even
Bishop McCarthy had been seen on the nightly news agreeing with the
lissome blond interviewer from News One that this was, indeed, a
red-letter day for the parish.

The newscast had also featured an interview with a beaming Fionna,
who'd been videotaped standing beside the Mercedes that had arrived at
the farm a week after Quinn's departure.  The same Mercedes Quinn had
driven during his visit to Castlelough.  The one he'd somehow arranged
to have painted with bright murals depicting the life and times of
Sister Bernadette.

"But you can be sure I'll be coming to America for the baptism of all
those beautiful babies I expect you and Quinn to make together," Fionna
promised.

Although just the thought of leaving her beloved grandmother made her
heart heavy, Nora couldn't help smiling.

"And you, Mary?"  she asked her sister.  "I realize you might find it
difficult to be leaving your friends in your last year of school.  If
you'd like to stay--"

"No."  Mary shook her head.  "Though it's true I'd rather stay here, in
Castlelough, there's something to be said for going to California, too.
Perhaps Quinn can help me find movie work."

That was not Nora's favorite subject.  But she was also relieved that
she wouldn't be leaving Fionna to deal with Mary's teenage angst.

"What about Splendid Mane?"  Rory asked.  There was no doubt he was
willing to go to California if that was what it took for them all to be
a family.  But he hated the thought of leaving his horse behind.

"Kate says we can get papers for your pony to join us in California.
And I'm certain there will be some stables somewhere nearby where we
can board her."

It wouldn't be like having her right outside the door, where he could
walk out whenever he wanted and give her a carrot or lump of sugar.
But, Rory figured, weren't the nuns always saying that God appreciated
sacrifice?

"I think that will be just fine, Mam," he assured his mother, who was
looking at him with obvious concern.  She hadn't quite gone back to the
laughing smiling woman she'd been when Quinn had been living in the
house.  But at least he didn't hear her crying anymore when he got up
in the night.

"I promised Peggy I'd send her a Malibu Barbie from California," Celia
piped up.

Knowing how close the two girls were and understanding that the move
might prove difficult for her youngest sister at first, Nora laughed.
"I think that's a lovely idea.  So long as she can resist any more
stake burnings."

It was the night before she was to leave for California.  The plan Nora
had come up with called for her to go first, then send for the rest of
the family once she'd settled into Quinn's house.  And his life.

And now, although it wasn't easy, she was saying the farewells she'd
been putting off to last.

"You tell that Yank of yours," Michael said, his voice unusually gruff
as he hugged her goodbye outside his farmhouse, "that if he doesn't
make an honest woman of you, he'll have me to answer to."

She laughed as she was meant to.  "I'll tell him."  Her voice cracked
and tears welled up in her eyes as she clung to her older brother.  "I
love you, Michael.  And I'll miss you something terrible."

"We'll have our visits."

"Aye."  Her voice didn't sound any more enthusiastic than his.  Why was
it, Nora wondered, that life always seemed to demand a person make such
hard choices?  "We'll come home for Christmas."

"Now that will give me something to look forward to," he promised.

They shared another hug.  Then, dashing away the tears she couldn't
keep from trailing down her cheeks, Nora drove to Kate's.

"I'll miss you," Kate said as she handed her a cup of tea.  She'd taken
down the Beleek, which was usually only used for special guests and
celebrations.

Since her separation from Cadel, Kate had begun to bloom like a parched
Burren wildflower whose roots had just tapped into an underground
stream.

"No more than I'll be missing you."  Nora's eyes welled up again and
she knew she'd never be able to get away without another flood of hot
tears.  She took a drink of tea, swallowing past the lump in her
throat.  "But I promised Michael we'd be back for Christmas."

"We'll take a day shopping in Galway," Kate said.  "Think of the fun
we'll have seeing how much of your rich husband's money we can
spend."

Even as Nora laughed, she felt the first tear escape and begin trailing
down her cheek.  "And it's not as if we're living in the nineteenth
century," she insisted.  "There are phones, after all.  We'll be able
to talk almost as often as we do."

"Of course we will."  Neither woman mentioned that the vagaries of the
Irish phone system--especially out here in the west--made that proposed
scenario highly unlikely.

"I'm so happy for you."  Now it was Kate's eyes that had turned
suspiciously shiny.  "Quinn's a wonderful man, Nora."

"Aye."

Neither brought up Quinn's fistfight in the pub.  The fight that had
brought Cadel O'Sullivan's abusive behavior into the open, exposing it
to the bright light of day in a way the villagers could no longer
ignore.  As if realizing that to stay in Castlelough would result in a
lifelong shunning, Cadel had returned to Dungarven.  The letter Kate's
lawyer had sent him had suggested strongly that he not think about
returning unless he wanted criminal charges pressed against him.  So
far the ploy seemed to be working.

They talked some more.  Cried some more.

"You're going to have such a glorious family," Kate said as they
exchanged hugs.

"I know."  Nora gave her sister-in-law a watery grin.  "I just wish you
could meet a wonderful man like Quinn."

"Perhaps someday I will.  But in the meantime I think I'm going to
enjoy having my little brood to myself."

As she walked to the car, after having exchanged one last hug, Nora
realized that finally Kate would be all right.

Kate stood in the driveway, watching the taillights disappear around
the stone wall.  She dashed at her tears with the back of her hands.
Then smiled as she thought of something even her sister-in-law didn't
yet know.  Nora was carrying Quinn's child.

After a sleepless night, during which Nora felt like a young girl
anticipating Christmas, she was pacing the parlor, waiting for her
brother to arrive to take her to the airport.  Her suitcase, which had
been packed for two days, was sitting beside the front door.

"Where is he?"  she asked for the umpteenth time.  "if he doesn't
hurry, I'll be missing my flight."

"Now, darling," Fionna soothed as she looked up from her knitting.
She'd found a pattern for an infant's Aran Isle sweater that would be
the perfect gift for Quinn and Nora's first child.  "It's not that late
yet.  You still have plenty of time to get to the airport."

Nora glared at her watch, wondering if it was broken.  She'd swear the
hands hadn't moved since she'd last looked at it.  "That's the trouble
with the Irish," she muttered.  "We have no sense of punctuality."

Much to her annoyance, her family's only reaction to her was
laughter.

"If he doesn't arrive in the next two minutes, I'm going to call Dennis
Murphy to come with his taxi and take me to Shannon."

"And wouldn't that cost a pretty penny," Fionna observed.

"It doesn't matter how much it might cost," Mary said.  "Because our
Nora's going to be rich after she marries Quinn."

Her nerves horribly on edge, Nora turned on her sister.  "That's not
the reason I'm marrying the man."  Hadn't she heard Eileen Donovan
mutter just that very same accusation to Nancy McCarthy while the two
women had been comparing hair coloring in the cosmetics aisle at
Monohan's Mercantile?

"Of course it's not, darling," Fionna agreed.  "Why, anyone can see
that you and your Quinn are soul mates."

"Aye," Mary said quickly, as if not wanting to part on an unhappy note.
"I hope if I'm still unmarried when I'm your age, I'll be lucky enough
to find a man like your Quinn, Nora."

"Thank you."  Understanding that her sister was trying to make amends
for her incautious words, Nora decided not to take offense at the way
she'd made her sound positively ancient.  "That does it.  I'm going to
call Dennis and--"

"Oh, here he comes!  Finally!"  At the sight of the car turning into
the driveway, she grabbed her suitcase and flung open the front door.

"It's not Michael," John said.  The entire family stood in a little
group by the door, watching the dark gold sedan, which was a long way
from Michael Joyce's battered old Fiat.

"Oh my."  Fionna lifted her hand to her throat and met Nora's gaze over
the top of Rory's dark head.

"Do you think...?"  Nora couldn't get the rest of the words out.  It
was too much to hope for.

"It's Quinn!"  Rory shouted as they all watched the man climb out of
the driver's seat.

Nora felt suddenly warm all over.  As if she'd just flown too close to
the sun.  She ran toward Quinn, who lifted her off her feet and spun
her around, kissing her as if it had been a lifetime and not just three
weeks that they'd been apart.

"I was coming to you!"  she said between kisses.

"I know.  Michael told me when I called him late last night from New
York."  His lips blazed a trail of fire up her smiling face as Maeve
bounded around them like a crazy puppy, yipping a canine welcome.  "He
promised not to let you get on the plane."

"I was ready to kill him."

"Why don't you kiss me again, instead?"

"Oh, aye!"  The kiss sent streamers of dazzling sunshine through Nora.
But it was his next words that caused her glowing heart to take
wings.

"I've come home."

Epilogue

The marriage was held in the circle of stones overlooking the sea.
Nora's brother Finn returned again from Australia to perform the
ceremony and, just as at Brady's funeral, it seemed as if the entire
village had turned Out.  Even Maeve was in attendance, sporting the
shamrock collar Quinn had bought her in Derry and a wreath of spring
flowers Celia, Rory and Jamie had woven around her furry neck.

And that wasn't all.  As Nora walked toward Quinn, following
Mary--whose fresh-faced beauty drew appreciative murmurs from the
congregation--and Kate, looking resplendent as her matron of honor,
down the path of blazing pink fuchsia petals Celia had strewn, she felt
a soft caress against her cheek.  Nora knew that, although some might
claim it was only the breeze blowing through the spring leaves of the
oak trees, her mother and father had joined the family gathered
together at her wedding.

"They're all here," he murmured, revealing that Nora was not alone in
her thinking.  "The Joyces, the Fitzpatricks, even the Gallaghers.  And
all the ancients, going back as far as time.  They've all shown up to
celebrate this day with us, my love.

"Aye," she whispered back, her eyes glistening with tears of joy.

And although Nora knew medical science would insist it to be physically
impossible yet, as she repeated the age-old vows to love, honor and
cherish, she felt the child she and Quinn had made together-the first
of a new generation--stir in her womb.

Quinn slipped the gold Claddagh wedding band depicting two hands joined
over a heart, the same ring that had belonged to her mother, onto
Nora's finger.

"You may kiss the bride," Father Joyce announced with obvious brotherly
pleasure.

"Now there's an idea," Quinn said, earning a laugh from those standing
close by.

As the sun set over the water in a glorious blaze of ruby light, he
lowered his head.  An audible sigh of pleasure could be heard rippling
through the gathered throng as their lips touched for the first time as
husband and wife.  Then, hands linked, Nora and Quinn Gallagher walked
out of the magical circle of stones into the arms of their family.

* * *

It was twilight, that mystical time when the world seems suspended
between day and night.

Patrick Driscoll and Peter Collins had been fishing for the past hour
with little luck, when suddenly, right in front of their boat--close
enough that they could have reached out and touched her emerald green
scales, they were to say later that night in The Rose--the magnificent
lough beastie had risen from the glassy cobalt blue depths.

And if that tweren't amazing enough, Peter Collins told the eager
audience, they could have sworn that the Lady was smiling.