The Eden Tree (6 page)

Anne was right. One was all it took.

Linn looked up from her reverie to see Connor leaning against a building across the way, watching her. She jumped. She had no idea how long he’d been there.

When he saw that she was aware of him he sauntered over to the monument and put one foot up on its base, folding his arms on his upraised knee.

“You were lost in the stars, my lady,” he said.

“In the past,” Linn replied, ignoring his form of address.

“Pleasant journey?” he inquired innocently, widening his eyes.

“No,” Linn said shortly, making it clear that she did not wish to discuss it. Two could play that game.

A small smile danced about the corners of his mouth at her tone. Linn had the unsettling feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Will you have some tea or a drop at the Arms?” Connor asked.

Tea here, as in England, was a meal. “I’m not hungry, but I’ll have a drink,” Linn replied, drawn to him in spite of herself. She craved his company and couldn’t decline his invitation, though she knew she should.

He took her hand to help her stand and Linn flashed on an image of his fingers enclosing her breast. She took a deep breath and withdrew her hand.

Con led her to the pub, putting his arm above her head to open the old fashioned wooden door.

The interior was dim and cool and Linn had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. She focused first on the bar that ran the length of the room against the wall facing her, backed by an assortment of mirrors and framed posters, handbills and liquor advertisements. A banner proclaiming “Guinness is good for you” was draped along the top of the largest mirror. Several patrons sat on stools nursing drinks and conversing with the bartender, a rotund man with white hair who was using the bar mainly as a prop for his elbows while he talked. There were booths along two walls and tables were scattered around the rest of the room at random. A dartboard was tacked to the wall farthest from her and a game was in progress, with two cronies desultorily throwing darts and arguing about their accuracy. At a table near the door four men were playing cards, murmuring their calls and slapping the table decisively with the cards as if each move carried earthshaking implications. With the exception of a slim, pretty woman in an apron wiping glasses behind the bar, Linn was the only female in the place.

All heads turned to watch their progress as Con steered her into a booth.

“They’re all staring at me,” Linn hissed under her breath.

“So they are,” Con replied, amused. “It must be your stunning beauty.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, shooting him a furious look. He was enjoying her discomfiture and she was wishing she had declined his offer. He had the advantage here and she didn’t like it.

“What’s wrong, my lady?” he asked, smiling. “Not accustomed to so much attention?”

“Stop calling me that,” Linn said angrily, keeping her voice down. “And you can knock off calling me ‘girl’ too, while you’re at it. I don’t like it. I’m a woman and my name is Linn.”

The smile vanished from his face and his eyes took on that intimate, slumberous look she was coming to recognize in her soul.

“I know you’re a woman, Linn,” he said. “I think no man knows it better than I do.” His voice was very low, but distinct.

He was standing in the aisle next to her but she felt as if he’d touched her. She didn’t answer.

“It’s just that you’re new here,” Con added reassuringly, his voice returning to normal. “The last interesting stranger we had here was The Lord Mayor of Dublin when his car broke down in front of Saint Michael’s on his yearly progress. That was in 1948.”

Linn looked up at him and smiled. He knew that his comment had unnerved her and he was injecting a note of lightness to allow her to recover. It was a nice thing to do.

“I don’t think I’m much competition for The Lord Mayor,” Linn said.

“You’re prettier than he was,” Con said. “He had a paunch and a great, ugly nose. I’ll get your drink. What would you like? Our choices are somewhat limited here.”

“What are you having?”

“Stout.”

“What’s that?”

“Dark beer, of a sort.”

“All right.” Linn watched him as he walked away. She felt a pair of eyes on her and looked up to see the woman behind the bar watching her. Her expression wasn’t friendly. Con spoke to her briefly as the bartender filled two glasses, and the woman turned her back on Con as he returned to the booth. Linn frowned. Trouble was afoot there.

Con sat across from her and put a glass of something on the table in front of her. It was an evil looking brew the color of raw liver. Linn eyed it doubtfully.

“Go on and try it,” Con urged.

“This is like beer?”

“Aye.”

“Beer isn’t brown.”

“Lager, then.”

“What’s lager?”

“Will you give over and try it?” Con said impatiently. “It won’t kill you.”

Linn took a sip and made a face. “It’s bitter.”

Con half rose from his seat. “I’ll get you something else.”

Linn put her hand on his arm. “No, don’t get up.” She took a bigger sip and swallowed. “I think I’m getting used to it.”

Con smiled slightly. “You’re a good sport.”

“Am I?” Linn asked softly, meeting his eyes.

“You are indeed,” he answered, holding her gaze.

The moment was interrupted by the conclusion of the card game. The winner jumped up and danced a jig next to his chair.

“He’s happy,” Linn commented, glad of the distraction.

“Drunk, more likely,” Con observed philosophically, setting his glass back on the table. “When the drink is in the brains are out.”

Linn watched him trace a circle of wetness on the table left by his glass. She glanced away. “Isn’t Clay an unusual name for an Irishman?” she asked.

He looked up. “We’re not all named O’Shaughnessy, you know. My father was Anglo-Irish. There’s lots of Clays up Derry way. In a drought it would rain Clays.”

Linn resolved not to laugh. She had to get used to his colorful speech; what passed for wit at home was normal conversation here.

“Mr. Fitzgibbon told me your pen name.”

His eyes narrowed, watching her closely for the effect of the revelation. Then he sighed. “Larry Fitz should shut his mouth. He’ll soon be catching flies.”

“It’s not a secret, is it? Don’t the people around here know?”

“Oh, aye, they know. But we’re not much impressed with writers here, Linn. They grow wild like the shamrocks. We’ve more writers than potatoes and we’ve got a lot of potatoes.”

“Not writers like you.
The Eden Tree
is my favorite book of poetry. I think it’s wonderful.”

He didn’t answer for a moment and when he did his voice was very quiet. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s a fine compliment and I appreciate it.”

Linn felt his eyes on her, moving down from her face to her throat and her breasts, scorching through the cloth. She couldn’t look at him.

“What are you thinking?” she whispered.

“I’m thinking I should have made love to you last night when I had the chance,” he answered evenly.

The bartender appeared at the booth. “Will you have another, Conchubor?” he asked Con.

“I will.” He looked at Linn.

She shook her head and the barkeep walked away. “What did he call you?” she asked Con.

“Conchubor,” he answered. “It’s my name in Gaelic.” It was pronounced “Con-a-hoor.”

“What does it mean?”

“Desire.” Con’s voice caressed the word.

Linn closed her eyes. She was definitely losing control of this conversation.

The bartender returned with Con’s drink and paused to look at Linn. “So you’re Dermot’s granddaughter,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“You’re a long way from home,” he observed.

Linn smiled at him. “I don’t know about that. From the moment I set foot in Ireland I felt as if I belonged here.”

“And so you do,” the bartender answered kindly, glancing at Con. He winked and ambled back to the bar.

“Is that true?” Con asked. “What you said to him?”

“Yes. All my life I’ve had a feeling of…I don’t know…displacement. The Germans have a word for it.
Weltschmerz
. It means—”

“I know what it means,” Con interrupted softly. “Homesickness for a place you have never seen.”

The poet in him had put it very well. “Exactly. And now I know what I’ve been homesick for…this place.”

“And me?” he asked evenly.

The silence was deafening. Linn broke it and changed the subject by saying brightly, “Bridie told me that you were fighting in the North.”

“I was.”

“But you came home.”

His gaze was direct, challenging. “I could bear it no longer.”

“It must have been terrible.”

“It was all of that and more.”

“And the reason why you can’t sleep.”

He looked away. “I close my eyes and see the pavements running blood, hear the bombs exploding.” He took a healthy slug of his drink. “It’s easier not to sleep.”

“Was it worth it?” Linn asked.

He eyed her speculatively. When he spoke he didn’t answer her question. Instead he said, “You are Irish and sympathize with those who wish to be independent?”

Linn gazed at him levelly and answered, “I am American and sympathize with those who wish to be free.”

He smiled, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Larry Fitz. It seems his fancy dancing is a catching disease.”

“I had it before I met Larry Fitzgibbon, Con.”

“That I can believe,” Con answered dryly.

“You won’t go back to the North?” Linn asked, backtracking.

He shook his head. “I’m known now. I’ve been told that it would be unwise for me to return. No, I’m out of that life. Well out of it.”

“But you’re wanted?”

He put his head to one side and regarded her archly. “You’ve been watching too many of your Western films: Wanted—Dead or Alive. I’m considered an undesirable, which means my presence is not desired.”

“Bridie told me that you were wounded.”

“Bridie told you a great deal.”

“I’m afraid I asked her,” Linn admitted, not wanting Bridie to take the rap for Linn’s curiosity.

“Did you now?”

“Yes. Where were you hurt?”

Con took her hand and pulled it under the table, placing it on his thigh. Linn resisted the impulse to snatch her hand back and left it there. The heat of his body seared through the denim cloth, branding her palm. “Just there,” he murmured.

Linn stood abruptly, sloshing the remainder of her stout. “I’d better go,” she said lamely. “It’s getting late.” She didn’t wait for him to answer but walked quickly to the door, feeling all eyes on her as she passed. She heard Con get up and drop some change on the table as he left.

“Wait a bit,” he called after her, catching up to her just outside the door. His fingers closed around her upper arms, holding her fast. “Don’t run from me.” She could feel his warm breath stirring her hair.

“Connor, please,” she said helplessly. She didn’t even know what she was pleading for—mercy, perhaps?

“I’ll not hurt you,” he murmured. “Surely you know I’ll not hurt you.” He turned her around to face him and she glanced down, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“None of that, now,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Linn did so. His eyes glittered like aquamarines in the failing light.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked.

“Where?” she asked.

“Up to Cool Na Grena, above the town. It’s a smashing view from there.”

“All right, Con.”

He smiled and Linn didn’t resist when he took her hand. Who was she fighting anyway, Con or herself?

The sun had set and it was almost dark. Dusk shrouded everything in gray shadow and the first stars glowed like tiny candles in the sky. A crescent moon was rising, barely visible against the clouds that drifted across it, gathering into thunderheads. It would rain tonight.

Con led her to a path that wound up the mountain. The going was easy; he was surefooted and knew the way. Linn clung to his hand, glancing at him occasionally, trying to read his thoughts. He was absorbed, quiet.

“What does Cool Na Grena mean?” she asked, to break the silence.

“A Place in the Sun,” he answered. “It’s a natural clearing amidst the trees.” He stopped walking and brought her up short. They were at a juncture in the path where two forks led upward into the woods. “Will you stop awhile in Bally?” he asked. “Do you plan to stay?”

Linn nodded. “I don’t know what my long range plans are; I’ll have to work them out later. I only know that I wanted to get here as soon as possible.” Linn dropped his hand and moved away toward a large stone at the edge of the wood. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to find someplace where I belong. Losing my father has made me feel so…lonely. Homeless. I hardly knew that Ildathach existed. My father never discussed it. But as soon as Mr. Fitzgibbon contacted me I had to come here. It was like the answer to a prayer.”