Chapter Sixteen

Three things that can't be seen: edge, wind, and love.

—Irish Triad

 

Muir House wasn't as Dev had left it four days earlier. He'd scarcely cleared the front gate when he received his first hint that life had proceeded apace without him. He slowed his car to a crawl and watched as one imposingly large, dark, and muscled man in mirrored sunglasses escorted two camera-bearing girls from the house grounds. And here he'd thought that the genius of returning to his heart on a Sunday when the restaurant was closed was not having to share her with strangers.

Hint number two came to his ears soon after he'd left his car. A "Peg O' My Heart," "Wild Irish Rose" medley rendered American and blisteringly off-key invaded his ears.

Dev laughed at the sound, inspiring in its volume if nothing else. "Has she hired entertainment now?"

Then he noticed that someone had taken one of the wooden benches from the back terrace and planted it on the lawn. And that particular someone was the soul now butchering maudlin folk melodies.

Dev left the pathway to check out this newest oddity. The male who was sprawled on the bench, bottle of beer in hand, looked as though he'd not slept in days. He also looked familiar, the way a face might after encountering it at a few parties or whatnot. He stopped singing, and Dev was certain that dogs for miles around were sobbing with relief.

"Grand day, isn't it?" Dev offered, counting the empty bottles littered on the ground about the bench.

"Better with a beer," he received in reply. The man pushed an ill-tended mix of brown and blond hair away from his face, scrutinized Dev, then smiled. "You're Dev Gilvane, aren't you? I met your mom last night." He took a swig of beer. "Cool lady...very cool. You look just like her."

"Don't be taking this the wrong way, but I hope it's not my mother you're singing to," Dev said.

"Hell, no. But she's pretty damn hot for a lady her age. This is for the love of my life, Maureen. I'm Sam, by the way."

Dev finally made the connection of name and face, unshaven and haggard as it was. "Olivera, right? I've seen a few of your films while on the London-to-New York hop."

"Yeah, that's me. Up-and-coming superstar, not that anyone in this house seems to care."

He smiled at Sam's dejection. Life grew difficult when one was no longer king. "It's nothing personal. If God Himself walked in the door, the Fahey sisters would have Him dancing to their tune. So, how goes the serenade for Miss Maureen? Is it working?"

Sam waved his bottle in the direction of a second-floor window, and a drape was yanked shut in response. "No, but since I've already run through all of my soliloquies and groveled until the skin on my belly's gone, I thought, what the hell."

Which likely echoed Maureen's thoughts at this moment. Sam would be starring in no musicals.

The actor squinted up at him. "You're looking for Jenna, right?"

"I am."

"She left about an hour ago. She said she needed some peace."

No great surprise there. Since her car had been parked where it always was, Dev asked, "Which way?"

Sam draped one arm over the back of the bench and pointed to the hills with his bottle. "Up."

Thankful that he'd stopped at Cois na Mara for a change of clothes and to prove his continuing, well-fed existence to Muriel O'Keefe, Dev set off. At least today there was no rain, and his footwear was practical—perfect for tracking Jenna, who'd apparently bought herself a bit of Bedlam in his absence.

One foot in front of the other, up Dev climbed. Perhaps it wasn't so much what he was seeing, as how, but he noticed things he hadn't before. In the crooks of rocks grew flowers so small that he marveled at their will to survive. Jenna would have the names for them, but at least now he knew they were there.

He saw her, far ahead. She sat by a stone similar to the one she'd so fancied in that bleak churchyard. An ogham, as he recalled—and one that he'd missed on his last climb. He shook his head. Overlooking flowers was one thing, but a whole bloody monument?

Equally amazing was that Jenna hadn't noticed his approach. Face tipped down, she seemed to be writing in a journal of some sort. Dev drew closer and noted a scattering of objects on the red blanket she'd spread. Photographs held down by stones, a swatch of fabric, a yellow glass vase, leafy stuff of some sort... He wouldn't hazard a guess.

"Mo chroi," he said.

She looked up, eyes wide. The smile that took her face was answered by the feeling of utter contentment settling in his bones. He would never be able to pin down the precise moment he'd become a romantic, but it had happened all the same.

"Come join me," she said as she rearranged her collection of items to make room for him.

"What have you here?" he asked as he sat.

"I'm working on the summer menu. Just give me a second," she said, turning back to her notebook.

He plucked the scrap of fabric from beneath its stone anchor. The silk was streaked with azure blue and a green that matched this hillside. "From your friend, Vi?"

Jenna nodded. She scribbled frantically, like a student at exams with ten seconds left to define the undecipherable essence of James Joyce.

"Tough to chew, isn't it?" he teased, drifting the fabric against her lips.

She brushed it away, then replied, "It's inspiration, not food."

After a few moments she gave a satisfied smile, flipped her notes closed, and tucked them into a day-pack that lay at the blanket's edge.

"Inspiration," he said. "And here I thought a chef would open a file packed with recipes, and that would be the end of it."

She moved closer, and he drew her within the circle of his arms. "Not me," she said. "I surround myself with things that look like how I want my menu to taste. Then I close my eyes and think of foods...of textures and flavors and colors. After a while I start writing ideas." She tipped her head back to look at him. "I must sound crazy to you."

"No," he said. "I think I'm seeing it…. Colors. Textures. This is the Zen approach to menu planning, then?"

She laughed. "I'd never thought about it that way, but I suppose it is. And after the Zen interval comes the tough stuff like working out ingredients, perfecting portions, and—"

Dev shifted Jenna so that his mouth could easily meet hers. He kissed her once, twice, hungry nips meant to whet her appetite for more. "Could I persuade you to set the menu aside for, say, the texture of your sheets against your bare skin?"

He reached his hand up under the loose-fitting blue shirt she wore and let it follow its desired path to cup her small breast. She sighed, and he knew it was with pleasure, for he felt it in his veins, too.

"And flavors?" she asked, her voice wavering ever so slightly. "Do I get flavors, too?"

He rubbed his thumb over her nipple and smiled as it crested to his touch. "I get the sweet of this wee bit, and the salt of your skin low on your throat after I've loved you."

She settled her hand over his erection, which rode hard against his khakis. "But I was asking what I get." She added just enough firm pressure that Dev closed his eyes and fought back a very pleased moan. "What do you have to tempt me with, Dev?"

"Anything you want," he managed to say.

She leaned closer and licked the side of his neck, a cat at cream. "What about color?"

With great regret, he slipped his hand from beneath her shirt, then moved hers away from him before he found himself begging for skin against skin. Here. Now. "Color? I'll give you midnight, for that's when I'll let you rest."

She sighed. "Nine o'clock."

"What?"

"You'll have to settle for the color of nine o'clock, because after that we'll be at a bonfire by the shore."

"We will?"

She nodded. "Vi decided that Maureen needs one."

He understood, even if he lacked in appreciation. "And it's to be at Muir House, of course. This is generous of Vi, indeed. Four days gone and I return to bodyguards, groupies—"

"Damn, that was fast," Jenna muttered.

Dev plowed on. "And drunken serenading actors. It's not as though we haven't spoken, you know. Is there any other news you forgot to share with me by phone?"

Jenna gave him an apologetic half-smile. "Well, I think your mother has a boyfriend."

Since Mum wasn't in sight, Dev glared at the mountains beyond. "Jesus. Forget I asked."

Jenna knelt and began reaching for the bits of Zen inspiration still on the blanket.

"They're wonderful together, Dev. It's so romantic."

He scowled at his lover's smile. "And fast, don't you think? She's not been here a week."

"Not much faster than us," she said while pulling to her feet. "Off the blanket. If we only have until nine..."

Dev stood, unable to let loose the idea of his mum and some man.

"And besides," Jenna was saying, "they've known each other forever. They were lovers back when she was seventeen."

"You've—you've talked to my mum about lovers and such?" Somewhere beneath his shock he realized that he sounded like a musty Victorian prig ready for museum display, but Christ in heaven, this was his mum!

Jenna's laughter was well earned. "Yes, we've talked—though if it makes you feel any better, it's not like we got down to the details."

He should have packed Mum off when the thought occurred. "Who is this man?"

"Brendan Mulqueen. Silver hair... Tall... You've seen him around the restaurant." Jenna pulled the blanket from the ground and tucked it into her pack.

Yes, and Dev had even sensed that he might have liked the man, given the chance to talk. Which just went to prove how wrong his instincts had turned.

"Grand," he said.

Jenna was about to swing her daypack into place when Dev recovered at least enough of his manners to retrieve it from her.

A small line appeared between her brows. "Shouldn't I have told you about your mother? I figured after the way I messed up her arrival, I'd get this news out right away."

"No," he said, trying to sound sincere. "You did the right thing, telling me." He just damn well wished that he were deaf.

Dev shouldered the daypack. Jenna flitted close and kissed him.

"Let's go home," she said. "Maureen's walled herself in, Sam has to have lost his voice by now, and Kate's off somewhere with Brendan. Best of all, in the bedroom it's just the two us."

Just the two us. Dev could think of no better kind of paradise.

 

Long after Dev had loved Jenna into utter relaxation, questions of a Zen nature drifted through her mind: What was the color of love? And the feel of it?

On this incredible afternoon, she knew this much: Love was sunlight drifting in the window as Dev and she held each other and talked. She could never know enough of him. Cocooned in their world, they had started a lovers' game.

"Jenna at nine?" Dev asked.

She smiled. "Horse-crazy and fat."

"Fat? That's no way to speak of my heart."

"Okay, chunky. Really chunky." She laughed as he pinched her bottom. "Dev at eleven?"

"Very alone."

His voice was so somber. Jenna's muscles instinctively tightened as she realized she'd picked the age at which he'd been sent from home. She wanted to know more, but refused to ask and risk the sunlight they shared. They lay quiet in each other's arms, and she willed contentment to return. It might have been a trick of the light—or a trick of the heart—but as the room fell into a shadow, he spoke.

"It was no great joy, being the 'stupid Irish git,'" he said. "And I wasn't even rich Irish, with a family they'd heard of. My clothes were wrong, my accent an abomination, and I was lower than a pariah."

"I'm sorry," she offered.

"As was I."

Knowing Dev, the man, made Dev, the boy, seem nearly unimaginable. His confidence and flair were so much a part of him that it seemed he must have been born that way. "Why didn't you ask to come home? I'm sure your mother would have let you."

He shifted, moving her so that she was spooned against him. "At first, it didn't even occur to me that I could ask. It felt like prison, and I was there to serve my term. No questions. No complaints. Keep your bloody gob shut no matter what the others do to you."

She closed her eyes, trying to think of something other than the cruelty of children, which she knew had insidious ways of surpassing that of adults.

"And then I learned," he said. "I learned to be faster, smarter...the best. But most of all I learned to act as though I gave less than a shit about what they said or did. And when I was done, simple bastards that they were, most of them liked me. Even those who didn't like me knew I was not to be ignored. By the time we moved on to university, I doubt they remembered when I'd been the 'stupid Irish git.' But I've never forgotten." He paused. "You've heard the old adage...that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger."

"Or totally screws us up," she added, thinking more of her past than Dev's.

"Leave a man his comforts, would you?" he said, a note of humor in his voice. "So now you know Dev, eleven to seventeen. Definitely not the golden years." His hand, which had been resting on her stomach, moved lower. Excitement began to hum at his intimate touch.

"And Jenna right now?" he asked.

"Wanting you," she said, giving half the truth. The other half—loving you—was a powerful secret, too strong to send crashing into their world. And so she would hold it close, in her control.

They loved again, and for all the sweet sounds of their pleasure—the sighs, the words, the breath hitching as release neared—for Jenna, the most memorable sound of all would be that of the words she could not give.

 

Dev had never been so close to total peace. For the first time he could recall, the need to have more, faster, better wasn't riding him. This moment, this woman...they were enough. Except he knew that he could hold on to neither. Time slipped away on its own. And Jenna, he would surely lose her if he could not turn Harwood's interest from Muir House. Of course, without appeasing the corporate gods, he'd lose all he'd fought for these past years. It was a thin line he traveled, and as Vi Kilbride had noted, he was growing weary.

This moment, this woman. How to have more of both? He looked at Jenna, stretched out on her stomach, dozing. Her hair lay in wild curls that would appall her with their lack of order. And he could not resist. As was his habit, he wrapped a curl around his index finger, a link, however tenuous, holding them together.

She stirred and murmured, "It's too light to be nine."

"No, we have time," he assured her with a confidence he didn't feel. He'd done much thinking while east in Wexford, and had even cobbled together a plan of sorts. To his mind, it was solid. He'd lose nothing and he'd give Jenna the status she deserved.

God willing, she would see it that way, too. He stopped toying with her hair and asked, "Have you ever thought of taking an executive position?"

She didn't move, but opened her eyes and smiled. "You mean where I'm on top? We just did that."

He laughed. "I've never met a woman who thinks so often of sex. It's a grand trait, but I meant as a chef."

"Oh, that. No more often than I've thought of becoming a nun."

"That bad, eh?"

She rolled onto her back, then yawned and stretched, flexing even her fingers. "I'm a chef because I love to cook. Me, my kitchen, my restaurant...that's all I need." She hesitated, then added, "I know I'm going to regret asking, but why are you bringing this up?"

Dev kept his voice casual. "Harwood is in need of someone to oversee the restaurants in their resorts. Obviously, your name came to mind."

She shuddered. "A corporate job?"

"It would be very high-profile. And think of having Zen menu sessions around the world. The two of us on a beach in Bali... A chalet in Zermatt..."

"Dev—"

"The pay is substantial," he added casually.

"Maybe, but the only thing I need money for is Muir House. Taking the job would defeat the purpose of earning the pay."

"Think about it, would you, Jenna?" Damn. Immediately he knew that too much concern had slipped through. He could not reel it back any more than he could regain his lost feelings of peace.

She sat up. "Harwood is considering other sites, isn't it?"

Here, he did not have to lie. "Yes."

"Anything better than Muir House?"

"In ways, yes." Also not quite a lie, but no site had been overwhelmingly better.

"Then I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said. "You're doing all you can, and I'm doing the same. Let's just forget it."

Which would save him this moment but lose him this woman. There was no forgetting that life in London also proceeded apace without him. Plans were being drawn, numbers studied. Even if he managed to get a sniff of interest from Harwood on either the Roscommon house or the one he'd actually rather liked, out Hook Head, they would not set Muir House aside while they looked at the others.

He eased Jenna into his arms, giving comfort when he had none for himself. "I'm sorry, mo chroi. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset." And that, he knew, was her lie to comfort him.

"Well then," he said, "let's rest so we're ready to face the fire."

She slipped back into sleep, his Jenna. But that was one voyage Dev could not make. He lay awake, thinking of eventualities, of what he could have and what he could not. At eight, he gave up. He woke Jenna with kisses and promises of eternal gratitude if she'd fix him just the smallest bite to eat. They showered, dressed, and then went downstairs to madness.

Dev was aware that Vi was about drama—not that she manufactured it, more that it was the definition of the woman. Still, he had hoped that tonight wouldn't be as large as the gathering of two weeks earlier, but it was looking to be just that.

Jenna and he peeked out a back window and tried to count people on the terrace, never mind the stray girls that Sam's bodyguard was extracting from the shrubs.

"Sixteen...eighteen...twenty," Jenna tallied. She smiled with an excitement that made him feel damned selfish. "Looks like I'm cooking for more than you. I'll find you as soon as I can." After giving him a quick kiss, she hurried to the kitchen.

Dev headed in the direction of the bar. The door to the library was occupied by a tall, thin man swinging it open and shut.

"Squeaks," he said.

"That it does," Dev agreed.

"I'm Clancy, from the hardware in town," he said, then gave Dev a stern look. "Someone needs to see to this."

Dev agreed that was so, then was permitted to enter. Once in the room he found Rory O'Connor of the pub family behind the bar.

"Haven't seen you in over a fortnight," O'Connor said. "Have you been too busy to stop down, or did you just figure you'd learned all you needed to know?"

Dev gave a nod to the man's perceptiveness. Of course when first arriving in town he'd gone straight to the pub to learn about Ballymuir. What better way? "I'll visit again, and just for a drink. You have my word."

"Good, then. Now what can I get you? Brendan Mulqueen's buying the house a drink."

"That being the case, a bottle of the Chateau Margaux," he said, naming one of the most expensive wines he recalled seeing on the restaurant's list.

O'Connor laughed. "You'd best stick with what I can find back here. There's a fine recent-vintage Australian Shiraz. A full bottle should be sting enough for Mulqueen."

"Sold." Dev replied.

"Not much for your mam taking up with him?" O'Connor asked as he retrieved the bottle and a corkscrew.

Dev walked to the side of the bar and reached for a wineglass. "Haven't decided yet."

He didn't trust Mulqueen. In fact, he doubted he'd trust any man near his mum. She'd been too sheltered; she had no idea what men today were about.

Rory opened the wine, then said, "Hate to see what you order to drink when you do decide." While he was pouring a glass, he glanced over Dev's shoulder. "Ah, now, there's himself."

Dev turned. Mulqueen and his mum had come into the room. He did the polite thing and thanked the man for the drink, getting an assessing nod in return. Dev's gaze went to his mum. It was then he noticed that she and Mulqueen were holding hands. But something startled him more.

"What's that you're wearing?" he asked his mum.

"Brendan and I have been hill climbing, so I borrowed a pair of young Maureen's denims. They fit perfectly."

If she hadn't sounded so bloody thrilled he'd have told her that denims like that were for teenage pop stars, not mothers pushing the far end of middle age. Instead, he took his glass and his bottle and said, "See you outside."

Dev "helloed" his way through the crowd, slowly escaping the sour mood that chased after him. A group was gathered around one of the three large, circular tables that had been among the new arrivals while he'd been in County Wexford. He joined the party and watched as bets were made and money changed hands.

Arm-wrestling looked to be the challenge of the night. Danny Kilbride, Pat Kilbride, Sam Olivera—now sober and looking like a man determined to have a laugh—and Sam's bodyguard, who Dev learned was named Steve, matched up. Vi, who was acting as referee, flirted outrageously with Steve. With a toss of her long red hair, she promised him a fire to light if he'd teach her brothers a wee bit of humility.

Soon Jenna, Maureen, and others came out of the house, bearing food. Dev helped them set it up on another of the tables. By the time all was done, the Kilbride twins had learned there still existed unstoppable forces in their world. Vi was leading Steve down to the shore to start a fire that the bodyguard was sure to find disappointingly literal.

Dev and Jenna walked hand-in-hand to the stone ring behind his mum and Mulqueen. When the man paused to kiss his mum, Dev determined that he was calling Margaret at sun-up. By noon he would know Brendan Mulqueen down to the brand of toothpaste he preferred.

Jenna tugged at him gently. "Dev, you're crushing my fingers."

He gave her a rueful smile, followed by an apologetic kiss. "Sorry." In stopping, he made Maureen nearly trip over them.

"Watch it, guys. I'm sticking close to you tonight," she said.

Dev glanced downhill at Sam, who stood at the stone circle by himself. He felt sorry for the poor bastard, and would have felt sorrier yet if he didn't know how close to disaster his own life remained.

"Talk to him, Maureen," Jenna said just before they reached the fire. "He's going to leave and you're going to spend the rest of your life regretting this."

"I fear young Maureen's determined to make her own mistakes," Dev's mum chimed in. "Just see that you take less than a lifetime to fix them."

Maureen remained mutinously silent and didn't move from her sister's side.

Once the fire was lit and a song was sung, groups broke off for chat.

"Shall we go back up to the terrace?" Dev asked Jenna, who stood in the circle of his arms.

"In a minute."

He glanced down at her, then smiled at the way the flames held her mesmerized.

"Beautiful," she murmured.

"Yes," he answered, meaning her.

From the opposite side of the fire a voice announced, "Now, Maureen."

In a parody of concern, Maureen looked around. "Did you hear something?"

Sam circled to their side. "I mean it, Maureen. I'm about fifteen minutes short of hung-over, and when I get there, it's going to be real ugly. The way I see it, you can deal with me now or you can deal with me then."

"I'd pick now," Jenna suggested.

Maureen must have hesitated a fraction of a second too long, for the actor hauled her over his shoulder with an ease that had Maureen cursing.

"Looks like now to me," Dev said as the couple disappeared into the darkness down the strand.

Dev and Jenna made their way up to the terrace. When she headed toward the table where his mum and Mulqueen sat, Dev balked.

Jenna impatiently tugged on his hand. "Maybe I can't put you over my shoulder, but I'm not without leverage, if you get my naked-upstairs-soon drift."

"Right, then," he said. At least the table held a bottle of wine to compensate for the awkwardness of the company.

"Do you mind if we join you?" Jenna asked.

Mulqueen gestured at the two fresh wineglasses. "We were hoping you would."

Dev took a seat. Jenna pulled a pack of matches from her back pocket, lit the four small white candles in glass votives at the center of the table, and then sat.

"Do you remember the story of Muir House, Dev?" his mum asked.

"Story? I'd never heard of the place until recently." Nor did he especially want to talk about it now.

In the dim light he could see Mum give a shake of her head. "But that's not so. I even took you down the drive and to the house one summer. You were seven, I think. It was one of our few vacations, do you not recall it?"

Looking back, he recalled sitting in the back of a car, feeling carsick and listening to his parents argue over whether they'd missed a signpost, if breakfast had been overcooked, and did she have any idea how much all this was costing. He recalled wishing he could disappear, or make them do so. Of what they saw, he recalled nothing.

Rather than give his mum all that unhappiness, he said, "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Well then, I'll refresh your memory, for this is a tale that Jenna should be hearing," she replied.

Next to him, Jenna edged forward in her seat. Dev resigned himself to listening politely, for his mum had always liked her stories—even those he chose not to remember.

"In another time," she said in the smooth voice of a practiced storyteller, "so long ago that the land was still rich with people and free of English, a house stood here. Now, it had no fine name and not nearly so many rooms as what we're seeing today, but it was nonetheless a place to be envied—especially by the men. You see, the house passed mother to daughter when none other did. Women tended the house, made her flourish, held her safe from men's wars."

"And the men?" Dev felt compelled to ask, though he already deemed the tale a great lot of nonsense. "Did they serve a purpose?"

His mother laughed. "Oh, they served purpose enough on a cold night, but you're making me lose my tale. You see, the English arrived for the first time, and one of the Desmond clan came out from Tralee. He believed he'd captured the house. Instead, the house's daughter captured his heart. They married, and because he loved her, he agreed that the land should be handed down as before."

Dev began to rise. "That was a grand story, Mum, but if you'll excuse us..."

"We're only halfway home, Devlin," she chastised. Brendan and Jenna laughed. Dev sat, and his mother picked up again.

"Because this is Ireland and others want what is hers, in time there came another wave of invaders from across the water," she said. "They saw these formerly English as purely Irish. And this time the daughter of the house didn't fare so well."

"Aine," Jenna said. "I've seen her name in books, but thought it was just a legend."

His mum took a sip of her wine, then said, "It's truth. It's also said that she was a beautiful girl. Dark of hair and eyes, and filled with spirit. An Englishman wanted her, and she, him. But she had her pride, our Aine. Before she would be his, she made him promise that the land must pass as it always had. He spoke the words, but did not live them. Instead, he seduced this place from beneath her. Once he'd tired of her, he killed her family and cast her out. After that day the land passed through males, and the family that held it knew horrible luck. The chain had been broken."

Jenna shifted uneasily in her chair. "That's so sad."

That's nonsense, he thought, but still his heart skipped a beat as though some unseen woe had come his way.

"Aye," said his mother. "It was tragic, indeed. And a sorrow I've always felt when I visit here. You see, I'm descended of Aine, who died giving birth to the Englishman's child."

His mother raised her glass. "And that is why I toast our Jenna Fahey, the owner of Muir House. You have brought life to a place I've always held dear."

"Thank you, but you should know, Kate, that I don't own it. And unfortunately," she added, sending a wry glance Dev's way, "I'm not the only interested party."

His mum set down her glass. "Well, I'd heard in the village that Dev had been looking, which seemed a fine thing until I met you. And now with the two of you, well..." She trailed off. "If you don't own Muir House, who does?"

Dev grasped the danger of this question and hastened to evade it.

"An elderly Englishwoman by the name of Weston-Jones," he said before Jenna could speak. "Which unfortunately, Mum, knocks the legs from beneath your tale. The house was held by a woman and still didn't thrive. Until Jenna, that is," he added, knowing that all he could do now was mitigate.

"And has this Englishwoman been here?" his mother demanded. "Has the house whispered to her as it has to Jenna? If it had, she'd be here still."

"How do you know what I've heard?" Jenna asked.

His mum waved off the question. "Because I've heard it, too. I'd wager even Dev has sensed something, except he's decided to be too thick to understand." She stood and glared at him. "Contrary to your approach to life, ownership is more than a piece of paper, Devlin. It's caring and loving, and sometimes it's even dying for a place such as this. Don't talk to me of ownership and Englishwomen."

She marched away.

Brendan sighed as he stood. "She's always had a temper, my Kate. I'll see to her. You two enjoy the rest of the night."

After he had left, Dev looked at Jenna. "Interesting tale."

She sat, silent. The light was too dim for Dev to discern doubt or any other emotion in her eyes, but he felt something chilly coming his way.

"I'm not Aine's Englishman," he said.

"Of course you're not," she replied so quickly that he knew some ease. "Still, you carry both his blood and Aine's." She toyed with her glass for a moment, twisting the stem so that the candlelight danced blood red through the wine. "Let's go upstairs, Dev. I think I've had enough for one day."

Dev couldn't have agreed more. And as he followed Jenna into the house, then upstairs, a ghost hovered behind him.