Authors: Doreen Owens Malek
Bridie shot her a look. “I never heard such nonsense; you have lovely things. What about that pink dress you were wearing when you arrived? It’s been cleaned and is hanging up there in the closet this minute, like new.”
Bridie was referring to her rose linen chemise, which was the closest thing to a dinner dress she’d brought with her. “I guess that will have to do,” Linn said, heading for her bedroom.
“We’ll finish this discussion later,” Bridie said warningly.
Linn was too preoccupied to reply. Bridie always wanted to discuss something.
She went to the closet to look for her dress.
* * * *
Con arrived a few minutes early and was waiting for Linn when she appeared. She stopped short in the hall, staring at him.
He was wearing a dark suit with a light blue shirt and a figured tie. His hair was combed back off his forehead and gleamed wetly with his efforts to tame it. He smiled at her.
“You look wonderful,” she said, awed.
He grinned. “You sound surprised, my lady.”
Linn glanced down, embarrassed. “Of course I’m not surprised. I just never saw you dressed up before tonight, that’s all.”
“Did you think I had nothing but caretaker’s overalls?” he teased. “I’m sorry if I shocked you but I didn’t think it fitting to show up at Ashford in my keeper’s jeans.” He leaned in toward her as if imparting a secret. “I don’t think they’d let me in.”
Linn crossed over to him and put her arms around his neck. “You just love to give me a tough time, don’t you?”
He embraced her, pulling her hair aside to kiss her neck. “I just love you, and that’s a fact. You’re a gorgeous woman entirely in that dress. What do you call that color?”
“I call it pink, but the salesclerk called it desert rose. I think the truth lies somewhere in between.”
Con’s arms tightened and his breathing quickened. “What do you say we skip the trip and stay here?” he murmured, reaching for the zipper at the back of her dress.
Linn slipped out of his grasp. “Nothing doing, buster. You promised me dinner and I’m calling in your marker.’‘
Con sighed. “I can see I’m not going to get out of it, so come along. But I will expect a suitable reward.” He took her hand and swung her in a circle. “I booked us a suite overlooking the lake.”
“We’re staying the night?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Bridie will call out the
garda
if I’m not here in the morning.”
“Leave her a note.”
“She won’t approve.”
Con frowned. “Do you care what she thinks? She should better turn her attention to that motorcycle maniac she’s raising in her house.”
“All right, all right.” Linn scribbled a note and propped it on the kitchen table, where the housekeeper was sure to see it. Then she got a tote bag from her closet and put together some things for the night.
“I’m ready,” she announced, stepping into the hall.
Con extended his hand and she took it, her small fingers lost in his big palm.
Ned watched them leave from his perch on the entry hall table.
* * * *
Summer evenings are long in Ireland, and it was still full light as they drove. Linn stared out the window of Con’s car, examining a road sign at the intersection they were approaching.
“That’s funny,” she commented.
“What is?”
“Well, I just saw a white sign that said, ‘Dublin, 136.’ Now here, a short distance later, there’s that green sign saying, ‘Ath Cliath, 219 km.’ They both point down the same road. Which is right?”
“They both are. The white sign reflects the old system, using English and miles. The green sign reflects the new system, using Gaelic and kilometers.”
“Oh,” Linn said dryly. “That’s clear.”
Con grinned. “We do it to confuse the tourists.”
“Take it from me, they’re confused.” She pointed to a marker at the side of the road. “Look at that. It says, ‘When Red Light Shows, Wait at This Point.’ Do you know what that would be at home?”
“I do. ‘Stop Here on Red.’ We like to take a little longer to say the same thing.” He gestured to the right. “Off in that direction toward the east coast is the town where my father’s ancestors came from, Cilleagh. It’s on N25 between Cork and Waterford. When they emigrated to Liverpool it sounded like ‘Clay’ to the Brits, and Clay it became.”
“It sounds like they shuttled back and forth between the two countries.”
“They did for many years. Some of them wound up in Belfast. The Titanic was built in the shipyard there, and I had a great uncle who was a cabin boy on that terrible voyage. He survived and lived to be eighty-five. He talked about it to his dying day. When I knew him he was very old and I was just a boy. I’ll never forget that ancient man describing the cries of the drowning and the sight of that sinking ship. He would weep as he told the tale, staring into the distance, and you could tell it was all as real to him as if it had happened only minutes earlier.”
“That must have made quite an impression on you,” Linn said softly.
Con looked over at her, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, everything made an impression on me. I was like an ink blotter.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Linn said. “I know you’re a sentimental fool.”
He shot her a sidelong glance and then dropped his eyes, smiling.
Linn settled back against the seat and said, “Tell me more about your childhood here.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Anything. I want to know about you.”
“Ah. Well, then, do you want to hear about the pansy pint contest I won when I was seventeen?”
“Pansy pints?” Linn said faintly.
“Aye. Short pints, twelve ounces. Little snorts for pansies, do you see?”
“I think so. Fire away.”
He proceeded to regale her with the details of a teenage drinking contest that had her laughing so hard she wound up crying. He was one of those people who could tell a hilarious story without cracking a smile. Linn loved to listen to him talk. His brogue had been moderated by his education and he sounded almost, but not quite, British, like a Belfast news presenter for the BBC. In spite of this he retained many of the local expressions, including the colloquial “aye,” which a year in the States and four years at Trinity had not managed to erase.
He was in the middle of another story when they pulled up to the entrance of the castle. They drove through a stone arch and entered the grounds, rolling fields of green that stretched away from the road in all directions. The castle could be seen in the distance around a bend, and behind it the lake shimmered in the fading light.
“Con, it’s beautiful,” Linn breathed.
“I thought you would like it.”
“It’s an actual castle.”
“Aye, it dates from the days of the Norman invasions. That’s Lough Corrib in the rear and the Connemara Mountains on the far shore.”
“What’s the name of the village here?”
“Cong, just off the Galway-Ballinrobe road. There’s a wonderful history to this place. A great monastery was founded here and the castle grounds saw many battles.”
He drove up the winding road, past the battlements and the watchtowers, and parked the car in a lot before the main entrance. He got out and opened Linn’s door, taking her hand.
“Come with me and see the courtyard,” he said.
He led the way around through the greenery and banks of flowers to the open courtyard, which lay in the middle of the stone structure. A magnificent fountain splashed in its center, reflecting the sunset. A light breeze stirred Linn’s hair as she tilted her head back and gazed at the top of the turret, which she thought must afford a view of the countryside for miles.
“There’s our room,” Con said, pointing to a window in the wing facing the lake.
“Oh, let’s go inside. I want to see it.”
Two suits of medieval armor flanked the entry hall and the interior was furnished with heavy carved pieces and dark, patterned carpeting. Waterford chandeliers illuminated the staircases and the several dining rooms, and gilt-framed portraits hung on all the walls. There was a museum hush about the place, and even the modern reception desk with its uniformed clerk did not detract from the atmosphere of age and historical importance. The original stone walls of the castle could be seen beneath the hangings in the main corridor, adding to the aura of age.
Con got their key and confirmed their dinner reservations. They walked around the first floor hand in hand, and Linn gawked like the tourist she was as the dining room filled up with guests. Con had to practically drag her inside when the sitting was announced.
Blood red carpeting stretched from wall to wall, and the overhead lighting from the many glass fixtures bathed the vast room in a blaze of regal elegance. A hostess led them to a side table draped in beige damask, and immediately a wine steward appeared at Con’s side.
It was soon apparent that this was no ordinary wine steward. This was, in fact, the friend in a high place who had arranged their seating on such short notice. A black haired six-footer with vivid coloring, he examined Linn with interest when Con put his hand on her shoulder and introduced her as Aislinn aroon.
He asked Con something in Gaelic, and Con nodded. The man turned to Linn.
“I’m Christopher Dugan, miss, at your service. I’d be in a sorry spot if it weren’t for your man here, as you may know.” To her astonishment, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
Linn glanced at Con, who was watching this display with a hint of annoyance. “That’ll do, Chris,” he said sharply. “Go and get the list and leave off the Walter Raleigh act.”
Christy grinned and pulled out Linn’s chair, bowing. Con shot him a black look and he left.
“Well,” Linn said as she sat down, “so that was the friend you rescued from a camp. I never expected to find him working here.”
“And why not?” Con asked as he pushed in her chair and sat opposite her. “We all have to work somewhere.”
“He’s quite a charmer.”
“So he thinks,” Con said sarcastically.
“What happened to his brother? Where is he?”
“In an Antrim jail where he belongs,” Con answered grimly. “He won’t be fixing any Molotov cocktails to incinerate babies from his cell.”
Linn stared at the tablecloth, sorry she’d asked.
Con’s hand covered hers. “I’m sorry, Aislinn. Matt Dugan is a sore subject. It’s animals like that who give all of us in this country a bad name.”
Christy returned with the wine list and Con ordered from it. He assisted Linn with the menu and she selected smoked salmon, prawn cocktail and rack of lamb, which Con related to the waiter when he arrived.
Everything was delicious. Christy hovered nearby, along with the waiter and the maitre d’, who paid frequent visits to their table. Con was either very popular or all the employees shared Christy’s moonlighting activities.
By the time they were ready for dessert Linn had worked up an appetite of another kind. The waiter brought coffee for Linn and tea for Con, and then wheeled a heavily laden pastry cart up to their table. Linn took one look at the Black Forest gateau and the kiwi flan, the chocolate mousse and the rum torte, and then her gaze sought Con’s across the eggshell linen tablecloth. She saw the blue flame ignite in his eyes as she said, “I think I’d rather see my room now, Con.”
He signaled for the check without taking his eyes from hers. Linn reached for his fingers and raked her nails across the back of his hand. He sucked in his breath and shoved back his chair.
Con settled the bill so fast Linn was sure he overpaid outrageously just to get finished with it. Christy stood watching their hasty exit with a smile of vast amusement illuminating his face.
Con tapped his foot impatiently while they waited for the elevator in conspiratorial silence. He was looking yearningly toward the stairs when it finally arrived. It carried them in plush, carpeted splendor to the third floor. They were the only guests in the hall, with dinner still underway. Their feet made no noise on the Oriental runner as Con unlocked the door to the suite and led Linn inside.
He embraced her the instant the door shut behind them. Linn closed her eyes and laid her cheek against the lapel of his jacket, inhaling his clean, masculine fragrance. She was intoxicated by the scent of his soap, the starch of his shirt. Music began in the distance, drifting in through the open windows, and Con started to sway in time to it, carrying Linn along.
“They’re dancing downstairs,” Linn said dreamily.
“We’re dancing upstairs,” Con replied, stepping back from her and whirling her in a circle the length of the sitting room.
The tune being played below them was “Begin the Beguine,” and as the music swelled Con led her through the steps of an intricate ballroom waltz, dipping and holding her tightly for dramatic pauses. He was remarkably easy to follow, skilled and graceful, and as the song ended he bent Linn over his arm and kissed the soft skin at the base of her throat. She put one hand up to the back of his head, holding him against her as his hand found the hem of her dress and inched it upward, his fingers gliding smoothly up her thigh.