The Irish Lover (3 page)

It was strange to have this man she’d just met
touching her, hugging her, and yet it was far from the first hug
from a stranger she’d experienced that night. Stranger still was
the fact that this didn’t really feel all that strange.

They stood together, Michael warm and strong at
her side, as the music flowed around them.

****

Michael reminded himself that he was a good
man. Not the kind of man who would seduce a woman who’d just been
through what must have been a trying night. Maybe it had been too
long since he’d been with someone—and it had been a long time—but
Michael couldn’t stop himself from fantasizing about pulling Mary
into his arms and kissing her. Maybe it was the pints, maybe it was
the music or the air of melancholy that had fallen over the place
once they realized who she was, but Michael found himself longing
for things he normally tried not to think about.

Caera Cassidy, the events manager who handled
Finn’s Stable, sang three songs with her new American boyfriend,
who was an accomplished musician and performer. The rumor was that
she was taking a career break to go on tour with him in America.
When the couple was done and the last notes faded to silence Mary
leaned into his shoulder, soft and warm. Her hair smelled like
shampoo, a clean scent that shouldn’t have affected him the way it
did.

As she tucked herself against his side, Michael
gritted his teeth. Every fiber of his being wanted to take Mary
back to her room, strip her clothes from her and make love to her
until the sun rose. He wanted to touch her, taste her and figure
out what it was about her that drew him to her. He wanted to, but
he wouldn’t.

Calling himself a fool he eased her away from
him. “You’ve had quite the night, haven’t you, pretty
Mary?”

She nodded, eyes watery once more.

“Can I walk you to your room?”

Her gaze searched his face. “If you hadn’t made
me come in here I might never have met all these people and heard
the stories about my parents.”

“Then I’m glad I did. Come on, I’ll make sure
you get there.”

Michael guided her out of the pub. They took
the elevator rather than the stairs and he walked her down the hall
to her door. She fished the key from her pocket then froze, looking
at something just over his shoulder. Michael turned and saw a small
flash of light, as if someone were moving a mirror in
sunlight.

“I thought I…” Mary shook her head. “I think
I’m well and truly overwhelmed, to the point I’m seeing
things.”

Michael scanned the hall, examining the corners
and what shadows there were in the well-lit, carpeted hallway. When
Mary had her door opened, he faced her.

“It was nice to meet you.” The words seemed
inadequate, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you, for everything. Hearing about them
means more than you’ll ever know. Everyone has been so kind and
welcoming.”

“Ireland is your home.”

She smiled, leaning her head against the
doorframe. “Yes, it is. I hadn’t expected to feel a connection with
this place.”

“Mary?”

“Yes?” She tipped her head, looking at him
through her lashes. Her lips were pink and soft, parted just a
bit.

Michael cursed mentally, trying to think of
anything but how much he wanted to kiss her. “Would you like to
have tea tomorrow, with my mother?”

“Your mother?”

“I think she knew your parents, and if she
didn’t know them personally she’d be able to help you look at
records.”

“Oh, thank you. I would like that.”

“Would tomorrow, or later today as it seems,
around two o’clock work?”

“Yes. Can you write down the
address?”

“I’ll come and collect you just before
two.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Michael didn’t kiss her, but
he touched her cheek with one finger. “Goodnight, Mary.”

“Goodnight, Michael.”

****

The next day at precisely two o’clock Mary was
in the hotel foyer. As she waited, she smoothed her palms against
her hips, checking to make sure that the gray wool skirt she wore
with black tights, boots and a blue sweater was in
place.

“Can I help you with something?”

The redheaded woman she remembered from last
night approached Mary. Today her nametag was pinned to a pretty
green jacket that made her hair look even redder.

“Uh, no, I’m fine. I’m waiting for
someone.”

“You’re Mary Callahan, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Mary shook the redhead’s offered
hand.

“I’m Sorcha, guest relations manager. Welcome
to Glenncailty Castle, and welcome home.”

At her words tears formed in Mary’s eyes, and
she had to look away, blinking. Before coming to Glenncailty she
would never have considered Ireland home. Home was Chicago. After
last night, “home” seemed like a much more complicated term than
she’d imagined it to be. It didn’t really make sense—she’d left
when she was two—but Glenncailty was starting to feel like
home.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you
upset.”

“I’m not.” Mary waved her hand, laughing a
little. “I must be tired, or jet lagged, because this is happening
a lot. Are you from around here?”

“Not from Glenncailty, no. Who are you waiting
for?”

“Michael Baker. I met him last night and he
said his mother knew my parents.”

“I don’t know Michael well since he lives in
Dublin, but Mrs. Baker is a lovely woman.”

The massive front door opened. The wind
whistled as it pushed though the opening. Michael entered, shutting
the door. He wore corduroy pants and a collared shirt with a fleece
sweater or jumper over the top. His hair—she’d been right, in
daylight it was more gold than brown—was rumpled and tossed by the
wind.

“Michael, I hear you’re taking one of my guests
out to tea.” Sorcha smiled, then winked at Mary. “I’ll expect her
back at a decent hour.”

“Ah, Sorcha, you wound me thinking I’d step
even one toe out of line with a lady like Mary.”

Mary felt herself blush. She knew they were
just teasing by pretending this was a date, but it hit a little too
close to home. Michael was one of those guys who was so nice every
woman around him had a crush on him, and hoped he liked her in
return. Mary had made the mistake of thinking kindness was
something more in the past, and so she was being careful not to
misread Michael. She was going to chat with his mother, nothing
more, and it didn’t mean anything.

Last night had been wonderful, but hearing
stories about her parents and how they fell in love also reinforced
how alone she was. Her life back home wasn’t exactly going to plan,
but it was easy to forget that when she could fill her days and
nights with friends and activities. Since landing in Ireland she
was more aware than ever that she was missing something in her
life—the kind of love and companionship that her grandparents, and
apparently her parents, had. That made it hard not to fantasize
about a date with Michael, a future with a man like Michael so
she’d never be alone again.

“I’ll hold you to that. Have a lovely
afternoon, and Michael, tell your mother I have everything arranged
for her St. Vincent de Paul meeting next week.”

“I will. Mary?” Michael held out his
arm.

With her arm threaded through his they made
their way out to his car—a black Jaguar. “Nice ride.”

Michael winced. “Bought in better times—I wish
I’d been a bit more practical.”

He held open her door and Mary slid in. “What
do you do?” she asked as he got in to the driver’s seat.

“I was a mortgage broker. In the height of the
Celtic Tiger that meant I was living very well indeed.”

“Hence the car.”

He nodded. “Then, when things started to go bad
I was offered a golden handshake—a nice financial package if I left
early. Only a few months later my coworkers were being laid off
without any severance pay. I was lucky.”

“I heard the recession hit very hard
here.”

“Very hard, indeed. Ireland has been through
hard times before, and they’ve come again.”

“So what do you do now? I heard you live in
Dublin.”

“Asking about me were you?” Michael’s eyes—a
pretty pale green—sparkled as he smiled at her.

“No, I mean, I didn’t ask. Sorcha just told
me.”

“I’m only teasing you, pretty Mary.” They were
driving along the road she’d come in on—the one that curved along
the walls of the glen. Now he turned off, descending once more into
the valley. “I work for the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. The truth of
it is that I was part of the problem, dealing in mortgages that
were rotten. We though that we could do no wrong, that the good
times would never end. So now I help people understand their rights
and options.”

“That’s noble of you.”

“Hardly. It’s the least a body can do to help
clean up the mess.” Michael was quiet for a moment, and Mary could
see the effort he was making to come out the dark mood her question
had put him in. “Please God, we’ll see an end to these hard times
soon.”

Not sure what to say, Mary looked out the
window as they made their way down a winding road flanked by
fields. Soon the fields gave way to the first buildings.

“Is this Cailtytown?”

“It is. I’ll give you a bit of a tour before we
stop.”

The streets were narrow, not made for cars, and
more than once they had to pull to the side, wheels on the
footpath, to allow another car to pass.

“This here is the town center.”

There was a small square, with grass sectioned
off by paths, flowers in huge stone urns, and a pedestal in the
center with a life-size statue of man mounted on it.

“Who is the statue of?” Mary ducked to look out
the window at the figure.

“No one knows for sure, as the original plaque
is long gone. It’s either the first lord of Glenncailty, or the man
who killed him.”

“Killed him?”

“Yes.”

“There must be a story there.”

“There’s a story to everything in this part of
the world. Here, we’ll take a bit of a walk so you can see
things.”

Michael parallel parked in one of the few
parking spaces around the square. When Mary got out, he met her and
offered his arm. The shops around the square were small, but each
one was well kept with brightly painted window trim and wood signs
proclaiming what they were hanging from the front of the two- and
three-story stone buildings.

“The Lord of Glenncailty was an Englishman,
given the title and our lands in order to subjugate the Irish. Many
lords never set foot in Ireland, instead sending others to collect
taxes and sit as judge and jury, but the Lord of Glenncailty came
and built the manor house that you’re staying in.”

“The castle?”

“It’s no proper castle—you’d need to go to Trim
for that—but it was certainly built for defense.”

“Defense against who?”

“Us.” Michael grinned. “The people of
Glenncailty are a stubborn lot, and we’re not fond of the English,
which brings me to our story.” He motioned to the statue. “It’s
said that the first Lord of Glenncailty was a cruel man. He used
his power and position to rape the people and the land.” Michael’s
eyes were pinched at the corners, his expressive face telling the
story as much as the words. “It’s said that one of the men in the
village went to the castle, as it was called even then, and gave
the lord a gift. The gift was a wolfhound pup, one of the man’s own
prize-winning dogs. The man’s friends were angry with him, thinking
he’d betrayed them by giving the Englishman such a gift. The lord
grew bolder after the gift of the dog, and everyone lived in fear
of him.”

Mary found that she was hanging on each word,
and when Michael paused she squeezed his arm. “What
happened?”

“One night many years later the man went to the
castle. He listened to the cries of pain coming from the serving
girl the Englishman was abusing. He whistled and the dog came to
the window. The dog was vicious and he growled at the man outside.
The Englishman came to the window, bold and secure in his power.
The Irishman whistled to the dog, a tune he’d taught him as a pup.
The wolfhound turned on the lord and tore him limb from
limb.”

“So the dog was a plant, a furry
assassin.”

“Furry assassin? I quite like that.” Michael
chuckled. “Yes, the dog was sent to the castle to rid the glen of
the hated lord.”

“And no one knows who the statue
is?”

“No, though everyone has their
preference.”

They walked along in silence for a moment and
Mary realized she was snuggled against his side, almost leaning on
him as they walked. She straightened, putting distance between
them. They passed a fish and chip take-away shop, a bakery and a
sewing store with a window full of brightly colored yarn. Next to
that was a solicitor’s office—the solicitor’s name was written on
the window in sedate gold lettering, but the frame of the window
was beautifully carved wood, polished to a high gleam. In each
corner was a fanciful carved creature—griffon, dragon, mermaid and
gargoyle. Above the window was an old wooden sign: “Callahan and
Son Fine Wood Furniture.”