A Woman's Heart (22 page)

He was about to point out that there would be music and entertainment, races—including a steeplechase—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 if 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 1800s.

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 bog.

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, mind you—to 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 Bens 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 with dry humor.

“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.”