Authors: Doreen Owens Malek
Linn smiled at him. “Of course. I’d go anywhere in the world with you now.”
“Would you, Aislinn?” he asked softly, watching her face. “Are you certain?”
“Certain sure,” she answered, using a Bally expression.
He cleared his throat. “Let’s be off, then,” he said, rising. “I’ve a powerful load of rewriting to do on that manuscript today before we leave.”
“Is it that bad?” Linn asked, walking with him to the register and waiting while he paid for their meal.
“If I could read it I might be able to tell you,” Con replied darkly.
“Oh,” Linn said in a small voice. “I suppose that’s my fault?”
“It is indeed,” Con answered, pushing the door open for her. “I’ve been so distracted I could hardly put two coherent words together. Nothing like a woman to ruin a man’s artistic integrity.”
“I beg your pardon.”
His eyes widened as he walked beside her down the street. “You mean you won’t take the blame for my failure of inspiration?”
Linn stopped short. “Was it really my fault that you couldn’t work?”
He folded his arms and faced her. “Well, Aislinn, let’s put it this way. Every time I sat down at the typewriter I wound up staring into space, mentally ravishing you instead of putting the words onto the paper. I conjured up some rather creative fantasies, but no literary masterpieces.”
Linn’s lips twitched. “I’m sorry, Con.”
He surveyed her critically. “I don’t believe that you are. You take great satisfaction in the certainty that you were driving me mad.”
Linn grinned. “I do not.”
Con continued to stare at her.
“Well, maybe a little,” she admitted.
“I thought so.” He ushered her into the car and edged his way out between the oncoming cars, joining the line of traffic.
“What will you speak about tonight?” Linn asked.
“Some of the legends that form the basis of our heritage here. I got most of my material from Seamus Martin. He knows the original version of almost all the stories.”
“Like which ones?” Linn asked, interested.
“Oh, Tristan and Isolde, for example. Have you ever heard of them?’‘
“Hmm. The Irish Romeo and Juliet, right?”
“Not exactly. Isolde was an Irish princess who was betrothed to Mark, the King of Cornwall. Mark sent his nephew Tristan across the water to fetch Isolde, and to be cured of a festering wound that would not heal. During the time they spent together and the voyage back to England, they fell in love. When Isolde arrived, she married Mark but still harbored a hopeless passion for Tristan. In despair, she ran away to the lepers and Tristan rescued her from them. He tried to take her to safety, and during their flight he placed a sword between them to keep his vow of fealty to the king inviolate.”
“It would take more than a sword to keep me away from you,” Linn said fervently.
“Thank you. Anyway, Mark caught up with them and banished Tristan from the kingdom, after which he was set upon by robbers and left to die. Isolde pined away without him, and Mark finally took pity on her and sailed away to bring Tristan back to her. But it was too late. Tristan was already failing, and through a misfortune Isolde thought that he was dead when his ship arrived. She flung herself from a cliff in sight of the boat. They were reunited for a few seconds before they died together.”
“Good Lord, that’s terrible. Are all your stories so cheerful?”
“Most of the legends are pretty grim. Cuchulain and Niamh and Fergus and the Druid, all heavy duty stuff full of tragic love affairs and heroes dying gloriously in battle. But the leprechaun tales are a little lighter. They’re mostly morality plays concerning wicked, scheming fairies who take perverse delight in outsmarting the foolish mortals who try to do battle with them.”
“I thought leprechauns were sweet little men in green hats who show up in stationery stores around Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Con snorted, turning the wheel to bypass a bicyclist in the road. “That’s the popular conception, the romanticized version. But in the old stories they’re fallen angels and very bitter about it too. They’re constantly baiting mortals into traps, luring them to their downfall by appealing to their avarice.”
“I never knew that.”
Con nodded vigorously, warming to his subject. “You never heard of changelings?”
“No, what’s a changeling?”
“A shriveled up fairy brat left in a cradle in place of a human child who was snatched away to be a slave in the underworld. The wee folk rarely took girl children and so my mother kept me in skirts until I was three in order to fool them.”
Linn stared at him, incredulous. “Con, you’re not telling me she believed that nonsense!”
He shrugged. “She used to put a cup of milk out on the back step every night of her life for a passing fairy man to refresh himself. They love milk, you see, almost as much as they love drink. And she thought the bribe might keep the bad luck off the house.” He shot her a sidelong glance. “It was gone every morning.”
“Oh, I get it,” Linn said derisively. “Your house was the rest stop for the little people, sort of like the leprechauns’ motel.”
Con laughed. “I think it more likely that we were a soft touch for every cat in the parish.”
Linn shook her head. “And how do you feel now, after being raised with all those fantastic imaginings?”
He turned his head. “Well, as an educated man, I know that superstition is the enemy of enlightenment and progress. But I must admit that whenever the conversation turns to pookahs and banshees and things that go bump in the night, I’m Irish enough to listen with one ear.”
Linn sighed. “I guess that never leaves you.” She glanced at him and smiled tenderly. “I hope it never does. I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”
Con turned the car into the lane that led to Ildathach. “Do you think Bridie is at the house yet?” he asked.
Linn glanced at her watch. “It’s early still. Probably not. I think she’ll go for the groceries first.”
Con looked over at Linn. “Good.”
She smiled at him. “I thought you were anxious to get to your manuscript.”
He coughed. “Not that anxious.”
When they reached the house, he got out and followed Linn inside. Ned appeared from somewhere and demanded attention. Con picked him up and rubbed his ears, murmuring to him softly. Linn had time to put her purse on the table before Con dropped the cat and pulled her into his arms.
“Come inside to the bedroom,” he said. “I want to conduct an experiment.” He lifted her blouse from the waistband of her slacks and put his palm flat against her back.
“Would this be in the interest of science?” Linn murmured, closing her eyes as his hand traveled around her body to the front, seeking her breasts.
“You could say that,” Con replied huskily, guiding her through the door to her room. “I want to see if you are as lovely under the sun as you are in the moonlight.” He swung her up in his arms and deposited her on the bed, falling next to her immediately and gathering her close. He kissed her face and neck, leisurely at first, and then with mounting intensity as Linn responded, pressing eagerly against him. He rolled her over and undid her buttons, stripped the blouse off and threw it on the floor. Her bra followed, and with a muffled sound, half sigh, half groan, he began to make love to her as the morning sunlight streamed across the bed.
* * * *
Con’s exit beat Bridie’s arrival by about ten minutes. Linn was looking for a skirt to wear that evening when she heard Bridie enter through the kitchen, accompanied by Terry, who was serving as beast of burden. They were unpacking the bags when Linn entered.
“Good morning,” Bridie said, glancing at Linn. “I’ll have some breakfast in a minute.”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Linn replied, declining to explain that she had been to Ennis and back at the crack of dawn. “I’m not hungry.”
Bridie peered at her narrowly. “What’s up with you, miss?” she asked. “You’re looking mighty smug.”
Linn turned away, alarmed that the changes wrought by the night should be so apparent in her face. She wanted to avoid a discussion of the previous evening at all costs. She didn’t need another lecture or an inquiry into the state of her relationship with Con.
“I have some letters to write,” she said, glancing at Terry, who was watching her with a small smile on his face. She had the uncomfortable feeling that the kid could tell exactly what she was thinking.
“I’m off to school, Ma,” he said, strutting past Linn and heading for the door. He glanced over his shoulder at Linn and then turned away abruptly, his boots clicking on the tile floor. Linn followed the progress of his slim, lithe form as he departed, struck again by his aura of worldly wisdom, of knowledge beyond his years. Then she looked back at his equally sharp mother.
“I think I’ll be busy for quite a while,” Linn said. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
Bridie examined her curiously, but Linn fled before she could say anything further. She shut the door of the bedroom behind her and locked it, feeling like a fugitive from an inquisition. She wanted to savor the wonder of the last twelve hours with Con free from Bridie’s well-meant but nagging probing. She flung herself on the bed and relived every moment from her meeting with Con in the glen, hugging the pillow in an excess of happiness.
And so, pretending to catch up with her correspondence, she dreamed the day away.
* * * *
When Con arrived that night to pick her up, Bridie had left for the evening and Linn felt free to fling herself on him as he came through the door.
“Ah,” he said, laughing, “missed me, did you?”
“I did.”
“And where’s herself?” he asked, glancing around for the housekeeper.
“Gone home.”
“You said nothing to her about us?”
“Not yet. I want to keep it our secret for a while.”
“That’s fine with me,” Con answered, “though I doubt you’ll be able to conceal much for long. That woman operates from hidden signals like radar.”
Linn held him off at arm’s length and glanced at his clothes. “Is that what you’re wearing?” He was attired in a pair of jeans, slightly less disreputable that the ones he usually wore, and a soft woolen sweater the color of heather which emphasized his eyes. He looked great, but hardly like lecturer material.
“Oh, aye,” he said, “it’s all very informal. We don’t stand on ceremony here.”
“Is this all right?” Linn asked him, spinning around to display her camel skirt and beige cotton top.
“It’s more than all right. I love your clothes, and how you look in them,” he replied. “I also love how you look out of them.” He took her hands, transferring both of hers to one of his and tracing her mouth with his other thumb. “I love these lips,” he murmured, kissing them, “these beautiful eyes,” he went on, touching them with a forefinger, “this glorious hair.” He released her hands and bunched her hair into both of his fists, rubbing his cheek against the flaxen mass that spilled through his fingers. “I love every inch of you, Aislinn.”
Linn swayed against him, her lashes fluttering downward. “Con,” she whispered, “don’t say things like that or there will be no lecture in Kinsale tonight.”
He let her go reluctantly, opening his hands and allowing her blonde tresses to fall to her shoulders. “It’s a good thing for my reputation that you’re such a responsible little American,” he said dryly. “As I recall, punctuality is highly prized in the States.”
“That’s right, and I’m going to get you to Kinsale on time. Let’s go.”
They left hand in hand. Linn noticed that Con was very pensive during the drive. He selected the southern route along the water, and the salty sting of the ocean breeze invigorated Linn as they drove along with the windows open to the air. The sky was inflamed with an orange sunset as they neared the seaport town of Kinsale.
“You’ve been so quiet,” Linn commented. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about the chance that brought you to me,” he answered, dropping his hand to the seat between them and clasping her fingers. “It might never have happened, you know. You might have spent your whole life in the States, separated from me by thousands of miles of land and sea.”
Linn glanced at him in the failing light, a little frightened at his tone. At a time like this it was easy to believe his stories about his mother; he had a fey streak himself.
“Why worry about that now?” she asked softly. “It didn’t happen. We’re together and that’s all that matters.”
He squeezed her fingers. “You’re right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He smiled reassuringly. “It must be this sunset. There’s a legend that a bloody one like this is a vision of the battle of Clontarf, where we lost Brian Boru.”
“‘Oh, how can I live, and Brian be dead?”’ Linn recited.
Con shot her a look, impressed. “‘
MacCaig’s Lament
,’” he said. “I’m surprised you know it.”
“We have books in New Jersey, Con,” Linn answered dryly. “Some of us even read them.”
“I’ll wager your father taught you that one,” he said, unconvinced.
Linn sighed. “You’d win the bet.”