Her Irish Rogue. Kate Hoffmann
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to their daughter and their grandkids, so they were off to Dublin. Island life seems to suit Will. That’s not gossip, it’s fact.”
“I probably should have called ahead for a reservation.”
“I haven’t brought any tourists out to the island in the past three days,” the captain said. “So I don’t think ye’ll have a problem. There’ll be more folks coming in for the Samhain celebration later this week.”
“Oh, I’ll be gone by then,” Claire said. “I’m just staying a night, maybe two.”
“If ye don’t find Will at the inn, there’s a key under the flowerpot next to the door. Just let yourself in.”
“Why would he lock the door if everyone knows where the key is?”
“’Cause of Dickie O’Malley. He’s got a farm south of town and he’s got no hot runnin’ water. So he wanders into town looking for a place to take a bath. Dickie is a dirty bugger and he always leaves a mess. Uses every clean towel in the place. He also drinks every last drop of whiskey before he leaves. I guess you could say it’s his callin’ card. That’s not gossip, lass, it’s just fact.”
They passed the rest of the trip in silence, Claire sitting at the stern of the boat, trying to make out details of the island as they approached. Suddenly, her reasons for coming to Trall seemed so silly. She’d come to find a magic spring that would make her boyfriend love her again.
The sequence of events leading to this moment had been burned indelibly into her brain. She’d risen just yesterday morning, thinking it was a day like any other. Eric had left for the office early and rather than ride in with him, Claire had decided to sleep a little longer and take the train. It was only moments after she got up that she found the note, a fluorescent green sticky stuck to the bathroom mirror. It’s over. I’m sorry. Goodbye.
Eric had been pensive and moody for the past month, but Claire had assumed he was leading up to a proposal of marriage, not a breakup, especially after she’d found the credit card receipt for a $9,000 purchase at one of Chicago’s finest jewelers.
She’d dressed for work, determined to speak to him the moment she arrived at the office. They’d worked at the same advertising agency for four years and had been together for two and a half. He couldn’t be serious about breaking up, she’d told herself.
But when she’d arrived at work, she’d found the agency in complete chaos. A company meeting had been called early that morning to inform the staff that the agency had just been bought out by a larger firm. Half the employees would be without jobs. She was promptly called into the creative director’s office and told she was officially unemployed. It was only then she’d learned Eric had tendered his resignation the day before and was already gone, his office empty of his personal effects, his whereabouts unknown.
As if things couldn’t get worse, when she returned home a few hours later, she found an overnight envelope propped up against her apartment door. Inside was a notice that her building was being converted to condos and she was welcome to buy at a price an unemployed advertising art director could never afford.
Claire had always been so careful in planning her life, from finding the right man to getting a job at the best agency in town to living in a beautiful apartment in a trendy Chicago neighborhood. She watched her diet, choosing organic foods from the grocery store, and she worked out religiously, four times a week at her health club. She even did volunteer work once a week with an after-school program. How could her life possibly have gone so bad in such a short time?
“When it rains, it pours,” her grandmother had told her as Claire had sat numbly on her sofa. And then, Orla O’Connor had given her granddaughter a simple solution. Win back the man in your life first. The rest will fall into place. When Claire had asked how, Orla had a ready answer. A trip to Ireland, to the Isle of Trall, would solve all her problems.
“And here I am,” she murmured. On a boat to Trall.
Captain Billy steered into a calm harbor and deftly maneuvered the boat up to an empty dock. When it bumped against the wood pilings, he jumped off and secured the lines, then helped Claire onto the dock. A moment later, her luggage was sitting at her feet.
“The mail boat leaves at noon, Monday to Friday. You can catch a ride back with me or take the car ferry. That makes three trips a day, every day.”
“Which way is the inn?” Claire asked.
“’Bout a mile down the road,” Billy said, pointing off to the north. He glanced up at the sky. “You’d better hurry along. It looks like we’re due for a spot of rain.”
“Isn’t there a taxi?”
This time he glanced at his watch. “Well, there usually is, if guests are expected, but you weren’t expected, now, were you? Dougal Fraser runs the island’s taxi service, but it’s nearly 4:00 p.m. I suspect he’s already well into his second pint at the pub. That’s it just over there. The Jolly Farmer, it’s called.”
“Could you give me a ride to the inn?”
The captain shook his head. “Oh, no. That would be puttin’ a toe onto Dougal’s turf and he wouldn’t take kindly to me doin’ that. We have our own little rules here on the island and stealin’ a man’s livin’ is one that we never break. Besides, I keep my car on the mainland. No need for it here. There’s nowhere to go on this island.”
“And if he’s not there? Am I expected to walk a mile with my suitcases?”
“Oh, I’m sure someone will come along and offer you a ride, then. Just wave them down and tell them where you’re going.”
Claire watched as Billy grabbed a sack from the boat and hefted it over his shoulder. “Come along, I’ll show you the way.” They walked to the end of the dock and Billy pointed to a small white-washed building on the corner of the cobblestone street. “Walk right in there and ask for Dougal. Hurry along now, before ye get wet.”
The light rain had turned to a steady downpour as Claire reached the door of the pub. She wiped the water from her eyes and walked inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior, but when they did, she saw the bartender and two patrons staring at her with curious gazes.
“I’m looking for Dougal Fraser?” Claire said.
WILL DONOVAN tossed another sod of peat onto the hearth in the spacious parlor of the inn, then stared into the flames. The peat flamed, sending a welcome rush of warmth into the chilly room.
“Fetch me another whiskey,” Sorcha murmured, staring at him through a tumble of coppery-red hair.
He glanced over his shoulder to see her holding out the crystal tumbler, snuggled into her usual spot on the sofa. Her lips curved into a smile he knew all too well, one she’d used on any number of men to great success, weaving her spell about them until they were defenseless against her charms. Will had fallen prey the summer he’d returned to the island three years ago, indulging in a brief but passionate affair with Sorcha.
But in the end, after six tempestuous months, they realized they’d made much better friends than lovers. Until just last year, Sorcha had still been convinced he was the only man for her. So she had used every Druid power she possessed to make his life miserable. In fact, he still carried one or two of her curses. “Why should I fetch you a whiskey?” he asked, relaxing into an overstuffed chair across from the sofa.
“You’re the host here. I’m the guest.”
“And you invited yourself to supper,” Will reminded her.
“Please, fetch me a whiskey,” Sorcha whined. “Or I’ll put a feckin’ curse on you, Will Donovan.”
Will crossed the room and grabbed her glass, then strolled over to the small table that held the decanter. He poured a small measure into the tumbler and returned to the sofa. But when Sorcha held out her hand, he pulled the whiskey back. “I’ll give you this drink if you do me