by Meg Allison
“But, I am not here to marry Torin. I came to bring my daddy home. I promised I would meet your son, but nothing more. I can’t marry him, Maggie. I don’t think I can marry anyone, ever.”
Maggie frowned. “But why, lass?”
Alaina wrung her hands together, worried the other woman would see the guilt and the shame she harbored in her depths of her being. It was something she could never share with another. But wouldn’t it be grand, just once, to reveal her darkest secret to someone? She wavered for a moment, the words at the tip of her tongue, but then retreated.
No. It just couldn’t be. Hers was a load meant to be borne in solitude.
“I don’t have that kind of emotion in me,” Alaina said, sure that it wasn’t really a lie. She’d never felt any real passion for any man. Perhaps too much had happened all those years ago. Perhaps another part of her had died along with the trust.
Maggie stepped forward and banished the terrible memories with the gentle touch of her hand. “Sometimes the feeling comes only with the right man, Alaina,” she said with a soft smile. “If you ever need to talk, just know I’m a very good listener. Seems both you and my boy have demons to vanquish.”
The older woman sighed and turned away. “’Tis enough serious talk for now,” she said brightly as she walked to the door. “You go look in on your father while I fix us something to eat, aye? I’ll bring a tray to his room as soon as everything’s ready. Then we’ll see about getting Patrick well again.”
Alaina silently thanked God for bringing Maggie O’Brien into her life.
* * *
The whiskey burned down his throat like embers from the hearth. Torin took a breath, blinked back the tears and exhaled a slow, steady stream of air.
“Need another?” Liam Shannon, the barkeep asked. Torin started to shake his head but thought better of it.
“Aye, one more round.”
It had been a while since Torin visited the pub. He preferred to do his drinking alone, without the prying eyes of town gossips in attendance. But tonight he needed the distraction of Tim Morrison’s tall tales and the rowdy darts game of the Simon twins. Without such diversion, his thoughts would dwell on thick dark hair that flashed with fire in the sun, and deep brown eyes that beckoned a man onward to promise.
“Or to my grave,” he mused aloud.
Shannon’s balding blond head snapped in his direction. “Sorry, mate, I missed that.”
Torin chuckled. “No worries,” he replied and then tossed the second shot down his throat. The warmth slid like smooth silk down his burnished gullet. A flame sparked low in his belly.
“Let me guess,” Shannon said as he stood behind the wooden bar and continued to polish one of his prize glass mugs. “Woman troubles?”
Torin shook his head and set down the glass. “No, not the way you’re thinking.”
“There’s many a way for a colleen to turn a man to drink,” the publican said as he placed the glass on a shelf behind him and picked up another. “She can give a man too little loving or too much, if tales I hear are true.”
Torin grunted. Somehow he doubted any man suffered from the latter.
“Aye,” Shannon continued. “Then there be those that tease to get a man’s blood boiling and then turn into pious angels. That was me Bronwyn’s favorite game before we wed. She’d heat me up like a bull in springtime among the heifers and then push me away with a shriek of disgust.”
Shannon shook his head, a slight smile curving his thin mouth as he stared somewhere off in the distance over Torin’s shoulder. “I miss those games of hers. Miss them something fierce.” He focused on Torin and grinned.
“So what has Patrick’s lass done to send you head first into the bottle?”
“Nothing.” He motioned for another shot.
“Ah, I see,” Shannon said as he poured the dark liquid.
Torin frowned. “Nay, I don’t think you see anything at all.”
Shannon chuckled. “I hear she’s a beauty and carries herself like a lady. Don’t need to be no professor to understand your problem, lad.”
“And what would that be?”
“You need a bit of a tumble, ’tis all. The soft touch of a woman’s hand will cure what ails you.”
“I told you before,” Torin insisted. “I haven’t got a problem. The lass means nothing to me and there’s nothing to be solved by laying with any colleen that a good whiskey won’t cure.”
“Aren’t you going to marry her, then?” the other man asked with a frown.
“No. I’m not.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought wrong. Miss Ryan is not to be my bride.”
“Oh,” Shannon said. “’Tis a shame, that. Just remember, Torin, life alone can be hard on a man. The Burren is a lonely land without a woman by your side to warm the nights.”
“You’re alone, Liam,” he pointed out. “Have been nigh on ten years.”
“That I have, lad. So I guess I be the voice of experience, don’t you think?”
“Why did you not marry again?”
Shannon motioned with his hand, indicating the dark, crowded pub. The smell of smoke, stale whiskey and sweat filled the air along with colorful curses and bawdy jokes.
“Couldn’t find another lass to put up with this,” he said. “Besides, I found the love of me life—not sure anything else could measure up. But you’re young, lad. You’ve got a whole lot of years for loving.”
“I’m no stranger to love, Liam.” Torin dropped a coin on the bar and rose to his feet. “I’d best be going.”
At that moment the front door flew open and slapped against the wall. The other patrons went silent behind him and Shannon gazed over Torin’s shoulder, his thick hand going below the bar to where Torin knew he kept a long wooden stick.
“You’ve been told not to come back here,” Shannon said evenly to the newcomer. Torin had yet to turn around, but he could guess at the unwanted patron’s identity.
“Have mercy on a man, Shannon.” Nick Doogan’s whine filled the room. “Where am I supposed to get a drink in this godforsaken town if not here?”
Damn, but Torin could use a good fight and this might be just the opportunity. Would be a grand way to work off some of the frustration he’d built up since meeting his betrothed.
“Sit and have a pint, then you be on your way.”
Torin watched Doogan’s expression in the distorted mirror behind the bar. The slimy bastard smiled, showing off his uneven teeth and nodded in agreement. “That’s all I want, after all.”
Torin stared straight ahead, jaw clenched as he watched Shannon pour the dark brew. The publican didn’t want Doogan here, that was clear, but it wouldn’t do his business any good to throw a man out. Better to take the smooth path around than to set straight off over the rocks.
Many in Clare still wondered if Torin was as innocent as the court claimed. Many more still sided with Doogan, saying he’d been wronged and deserved his revenge no matter the law. If it hadn’t been for his mother, Torin would have left the county and stayed away years ago. In the end it might come to that—anything would be better than seeing the glimmer of blame, the small hint of doubt in the eyes of his neighbors and even his friends. No one quite trusted a man once accused of murder.
“Now take this to the corner, Doogan, and be on your way after,” Shannon’s voice boomed from deep inside his broad chest. The lads might get rowdy, but they never went too far in the pub. None wished to face the gentle giant’s wrath at the opposite end of the shillelagh.
Doogan ignored the order and propped a foot on a nearby stool before he took a long drag from his mug. “Ah, smooth as a whore’s thighs,” he muttered. Torin flinched inwardly at the crude statement.
“Just drink and be on your way.”
“Come now, seems to me you might be welcoming a man home again after so many years abroad.”
“Seems not long enough,” Shannon drawled.
“A shame,” Doogan murm
ured then took another drink. “To think I’d be unwanted in the place of me birth. We have more in common every time we meet, Irish.”
The air in the pub seemed to go still as whispered conversations ceased. A fly buzzed about, its hum a small roar in the quiet that blanketed the room.
Torin refused to take the bait, or even acknowledge the other man’s presence. Once, years ago, they had been friends of a sort. A great deal of blood and tears later, they were bitter enemies. The unspoken animosity hung in the air until every man felt the tension of it.
Doogan drained the pint in a third gulp and thumped the glass down on the smooth bar. “Another.”
Shannon shook his head. “I said one drink and that’s what you’ve had. On with you now, Doogan.”
“I’m still thirsty,” the Scot replied. “Give me another! I have the money.” He pulled some coins from his filthy jacket pocket and plunked them down beside his empty tankard.
“Your money and your thirst are not something I care about,” Shannon replied, eyes narrowed as he hefted the shillelagh up to the bar. Torin turned his head to see Doogan’s eyes widen.
“Och, Shannon, there be no need for that. All I came for was a bit of whiskey, not a fight.”
Torin laughed, unable to keep the bitterness at bay any longer. “All you know is the fight. Don’t try and convince us otherwise.”
Doogan narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “And you be the one to act so high and mighty on the subject, O’Brien? Maybe you’re afraid I’ll wipe the bar with that ugly face?”
“Ah, there it is,” Shannon said as he slapped the club against one hand. “Give me a reason to use this, Doogan. Just one.”
The other man held up both hands, a wide grin on his dirty face. “I’ll be on my way. The whiskey here is more water than spirit, anyhow. I’ll just be making my own in da’s old still.”
“You do that, Nick.” Shannon glowered after the Scot as he left the pub, door slamming shut behind him. “Just why God saw fit to inflict that bastard on us again, I’ll never know.”
“Penance.” The coins glimmered dully in the dim light. He sighed. “Some days it seems I’ll always be seeking it, and those near me suffer right along.”
Shannon tossed the club back in its place with a thud. “A round on the house, lads,” he called, ever mindful of his duties. When the cheers died down and the pints had been passed round, he turned back to Torin and poured another shot. “Is that why you stay away from the colleens, then? You think you’re cursed or something?”
“No, not that.” Torin fingered the glass as he sought to put his thoughts into words. “Not a curse so much as tainted. Everything that happened, it can’t be forgotten, Liam. Not in Clare and not by me. I wouldn’t ask any woman to live with that hanging over us.”
Shannon shook his head and began to wipe down the smooth, polished surface. “There comes a day each man must make peace with himself. Just don’t be waiting ’til your life is near over to do it.”
“Liam, you just said you wouldn’t ask a woman to endure the stench and crude language of the publican life. How can I ask one to live as an outcast with a man everyone thinks a murderer?”
Again the conversations around them faded and someone cleared his throat. Torin cursed his own temper and wished he’d stayed home. At least he could be passed out drunk by now—alone to suffer the memories and dark temptations.
He glanced around the room, every pair of eyes dropped away before they’d meet his gaze. He sighed.
“Thanks for the whiskey,” he said and reached into his pocket for another coin.
“Nay, you’ve paid enough, lad.” Shannon’s soft smile held a world of meaning, but Torin wasn’t in the mood for sympathy. Somehow it made it all the harder to bear.
He turned and made his way out of the pub with one purpose in mind—to drink himself to oblivion once he got back to his own cottage. Torin stumbled into the dusty street and squinted against the last red rays of the setting sun. The edges of twilight made everything look gray and forlorn. Or perhaps it was just his mood. He set off toward home but changed direction and walked east. Soon the cliffs rose beneath his feet and he stood at the precipice with the ghostly memories that swirled around him in the chilling wind. The crash of waves hundreds of feet below seemed to beckon. Their rhythm pulsed in time to beat of the earth’s own heart.
Were these the last sounds, the final moments of Brigit’s life? What went through her mind, her heart before she plunged to the bottom of the cliff? She had feared them so. How had she taken that last step?
“Makes a body wonder.”
He spun around, his pulse hammering in his ears as he faced the dark tormentor of his past.
“What are you doing here, Doogan?”
The other man took a step forward and Torin stiffened in response.
“Paying me respects,” the man replied, then cast a shrewd look in his direction. “Much as I expect you be paying yours. Or is it guilt that brings you here, Irish? Are the ghosts haunting you this night?”
“The only thing haunting me is the hangover I’ll have come morning.” Torin turned and walked away, his back stiff as he braced himself for some kind of attack. It didn’t come.
Several yards away, he heard Doogan’s voice rise above the wind: “She’ll be avenged, Irish. The murdered never rest in peace.”
Torin hesitated, but moved onward just as he had for the last ten years. No, he could never ask a woman to share this lot in life—to live in the shadow of his sin, his blame. He hadn’t pushed Brigit off that cliff, but it was his fault all the same.
His stride lengthened as he continued over the rocky ground and skirted around the sleepy town to his solitary home. His refuge. His hideaway. None but the ghosts ever visited there.
Chapter Six
The rise and fall of his chest let her know he still held on to life. But as she watched her father sleep, Alaina couldn’t help but wonder how much time they had left together. Tears burned in her throat and she rose to pace the small room, arms wrapped about her waist.
She hadn’t slept well the night before with her mind in turmoil. Torin filled her thoughts as she replayed their conversation of the previous evening. They had been there less than two days and yet the house seemed empty without the Irishman’s presence. Anger, sadness and fear all boiled within as their sparks seemed to ignite some other feeling she couldn’t quite name. But the result had her as jumpy as a cat.
Her father had awakened little the day before and had been unable to eat more than broth. The fatigue of his illness and their long journey had finally caught up with him. Alaina spent much of the last two days at his bedside while he slept. Nerves frayed and at the breaking point, she held on to her sanity by a sheer thread of hope. Something deep inside her wanted to cry and scream all at once, and she feared she might step over the abyss into bedlam if something didn’t change.
It had been so long since she’d let loose of her emotions. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d allowed herself a really good cry. A body needed a good cry now and then, her old nanny once told her. That had been when she was seventeen. James Sloan, her father’s doctor, her first love, had gently explained why they could not be together. Why he didn’t love her as a man loves a woman.
Her father murmured something in his sleep, his limbs jerked in chaotic rhythm. She stopped her pacing, afraid of waking him, and sank back down in the stiff wooden chair at his bedside. But deep within, her heart still raced as if caught in a whirlwind.
Afraid…always afraid. The fear had been a constant companion since the war had begun. It had become a part of her very being after that dreadful day.
She surged to her feet, unable to deal with the memories, unwilling to relive them while her father lay ill, perhaps dying. The doctor had said his condition was made worse because he’d lost his will to live. Patrick Ryan, the toughest scrapper in all of southern Virginia had lost his desire to survive. That in itself must be the greatest tr
agedy of the war that had torn her young country apart. So many simply gave up and resigned themselves to the horrors experienced on both sides. Better to cast blame and lie down in bitterness than to stand with the enemy and rebuild.
For many, there had been nothing to rebuild. Her father had been blessed that way and with the survival of his eldest son and only daughter. But the losses seemed to take just a bit too much of the sparkle from his light blue eyes.
“Alaina.”
She turned to see him looking up at her, his eyes shadowed by fatigue.
“Daddy, I’m sorry,” she murmured, her own smile in place as she swallowed back more tears and moved to his bedside. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’t worry, love, I’ve slept long enough.” He grimaced as he pulled himself up on the pillows. “Seems I’m sleepin’ the day away. You shouldn’t let me waste the morn this way.”
She laid her hand on his brow and was relieved to find it cool to the touch. “You were tired, Daddy. I knew the journey had been difficult and Maggie felt we should let you rest.”
He smiled softly at the mention of the woman’s name. “Did she now? Well, I may be old and feeble, but I won’t be lying around all day like a lazy hound. Help me up, inion.”
She reached for his arm as he sat up in bed and threw his legs over the side. “Daddy, do slow down a bit.”
“Ah, don’t be treating like a babe. I’m fine.”
“But still…” she protested as he stood and wavered to and fro like a reed in the wind.
“Now don’t you be ordering your old da around, lass. As long as I’ve got a mind, I’ll be doing as I please.”
“As stubborn as ever, I see,” a smooth voice observed from the doorway.
Alaina turned her head and smiled at Maggie, who stood with a tray in her hands. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I suppose not, with the old man fussing away.” Again, the woman’s smile and a soft twinkle in her eyes took some of the bite out of her reprimand.
“Go on Patrick,” Maggie added as she moved to the other side of the bed and set the tray down on the dresser top. “Get back in bed and have your meal, then you can get up and about if you’ve still a mind to.”