"Yes, thanks to you," she said as his gaze searched her upturned face. He nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.

They moved along and Alaina admonished herself to let go of the fear. There could be little amiss at this point. He had, after all, saved her from a painful collision. At least he had good manners, and that was an a.s.set sorely lacking in the world. She tried to concentrate on the sights and sounds instead of the man at her side, and felt the tension ebb as the pleasant sound of Gaelic surrounded her.

They reached the fishmonger's cart. Alaina wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell of the haddock and salmon lying bare under the early morning sun. Flies hovered and darted around the silver fish.

Torin spoke to the fisherman, his deep resonant voice washing over her, comforting. It reminded her of her father. Patrick Ryan had spoken Gaelic in moments of tenderness as well as anger, but his voice sounded much different from Torin O'Brien's rich baritone.

The fisherman glanced at her, curiosity evident on his unshaven face and in his dark eyes. She took an instinctive step backwards at the man's attention. The smell of tobacco lingered on his clothing. The familiar odor brought unwanted memories with it. Alaina felt as if something slithered across her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself.

The fish vendor said something in Gaelic that made Torin hesitate, his color heightening above the collar of his coat. Lowering his voice, Torin leaned toward the other man and spoke near his ear. The fisherman smiled and chuckled. With a shake of his head, he scooped up a large salmon and wrapped it neatly in paper before handing it to Torin.

Alaina glanced away, avoiding the fisherman's leering gaze and knowing smile. She wondered what the men had said, sure that they were talking about her. It was one thing to live in fear, quite another to do so in foreign land without the comfort of friends or a knowledge of the language.

"Miss Ryan?"

She looked up at Torin then, noting the questioning look in his eyes. She realized that she had been frowning.

"Yes?" she asked, forcing a bright note into her voice that she did not feel.

"If you're seeing anything to your liking, please let me know." He held her gaze, and she thought a bit of sorrow lingered there. But then it was gone.

"Of course," she replied as she forced her lips into a smile and looked away.

Less than half an hour later, he led her back to the carriage, his arms full of parcels. She stayed close enough to smell the turf smoke on his coat, but the lack of physical contact made their proximity a bit more bearable. When they reached the rig, they found her father snoring peacefully in his coc.o.o.n.

After storing everything beneath the bench, Torin held out his hand. Alaina drew in a deep breath and placed her hand in his, still avoiding his gaze. He boosted her up onto the seat and she realized how at ease she had been with him in the market. Without thought, she had quite easily allowed his touch.

Soon he sat beside her, clucking at the mare as he flicked the animal gently with the reins. Alaina glanced at him while the carriage bounced down the narrow street.

"Thank you for a lovely morning, Mr. O'Brien."

He turned his head and smiled a little. Alaina could sense the unease behind his pleasant manner. She saw a flicker of doubt in the deep green of his gaze.

"'Tis my pleasure, Miss Ryan."

She watched the village pa.s.s as they ventured into the countryside. A surge of panic washed over her as civilization disappeared behind them. Here she sat, at the mercy of a stranger much bigger and stronger than herself. While her spirit whispered peace, her mind filled with the echo of past horrors. Each memory brought a tingle of fear until her heart raced.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Alaina forced the panic aside long enough to pray for calm and strength. A warm feeling washed over her, soothing her. The air slowly drained from her lungs. She opened her eyes. The sky seemed brighter somehow. In her heart she knew that there was no cause for alarm. Mr. O'Brien could be trusted.

Her thoughts drifted back to the fisherman. Soon curiosity overruled proper manners. "What did he say?"

Torin jerked a little and flashed a wary glance in her direction. "Pardon, who do you mean?"

"The fisherman-the first one you bought the salmon from. I couldn't understand what he said and..." Alaina hesitated. "He seemed to be talking about me and then you, well, you appeared a bit...embarra.s.sed..." her voice trailed off and she sat, staring at her hands as she fervently wished she had kept her curiosity in check.

Torin cleared his throat and flicked the reins. "The old man thought he had seen you with me before. I a.s.sured him 'twas your first visit to Ireland."

She noticed the rigid set of his jaw, the wash of dusky pink over his cheeks. Why did something so innocent bother him? Alaina glanced away and sought for something more to say, but she couldn't help but think he was lying to her.

Torin silently cursed the fisherman even as he thanked G.o.d the man couldn't speak enough English to save his soul. The old man's soul would need immediate redemption if he ever dared say such a thing about Alaina in his presence again.

Now he owed penance for lying, but that would come later. A lie was little to ask of him if it protected her innocent ears from such a filthy insinuation. She may be a spoiled rich girl, but hadn't the fool merchant been able to tell she was as pure as a babe? No, it was because of Torin's past and reputation, the other man had a.s.sumed she was an expensive wh.o.r.e. He pushed the thought away. She need never know what the fisherman had said. He'd lie a hundred times more to keep such things from her.

He shifted uncomfortably as he felt the heat of her beside him. It made him want to force old Mavis into a trot-the quicker they got home, the better.

Torin glanced at Alaina's profile and his chest constricted as it had when he'd first seen her across the pier. He knew they both felt it. There was some undeniable connection between them. He saw it in the depths of her eyes when she first looked up at him. He saw it in the way her cheeks blossomed as red as a summer rose when he spoke. Yet, he felt her fear. It hovered around her as much as the warm scent that filled his nostrils. Why did the touch of his hand make her tremble so?

It took great effort, but he kept his gaze averted as the mare pulled them along the rutted path. His usual ability to converse had fled. It had happened the moment she laid her small hand in his. His thoughts turned to a jumbled mess when she gripped his arm, her fingers fluttering like a b.u.t.terfly on his sleeve.

Beauty...yes, she had that blessing as any fool could see. But there seemed to be something below the surface that beckoned to him through those wide, dark eyes. It pulled at his heart and reached further into his being, grasping at his very soul.

He shifted on the bench, jumping back when his knee brushed against hers. Torin tried to apologize, but his throat felt as dry as the land they crossed.

"Pardon."

He winced. The word sounded more like a growl than an apology.

This had not been a good idea. He should never have agreed to meet the young woman and take her to his mother. What a blessing that she hadn't been alone. But somehow the presence of Patrick Ryan snoring away in the wagon bed did little to create the buffer he needed on this long journey.

He glanced sideways. She seemed as uncomfortable as he felt, sitting stiff and erect, her eyes straight ahead and hands clasped in her lap. Perhaps that could be a good sign. If she felt just as awkward, then maybe she hadn't come to Ireland expecting more than he could give. His gaze shifted to her face. She moved and Torin glanced ahead, snapping the reins against the horses' flank. The mare snorted in protest.

"Sorry, old girl," he murmured.

The silence between them began to rub against his raw nerves. His body ached from the hours of travel the previous day. He hadn't slept more than a few hours a night since Patrick's letter had arrived a month earlier.

He took a deep breath to clear his head, but that proved to be a mistake. Her essence and sweet warmth filled his senses. It radiated around her like heat from a hearth. Torin stifled a groan of despair. He better say something, anything, before he lost control and made a fool of himself in front of her.

He sent out a silent prayer, asking for guidance, begging for strength. Then the thought came. He should just talk to her. Torin cleared his throat and Alaina jumped at the sudden sound.

"'Tis about ten miles until we reach Doolin, my mum's village." His gaze remained steady on the path ahead of them. "Her cottage is about a mile closer the way we're traveling."

"Oh," she murmured and glanced away. A frown creased her smooth brow.

He waited for the questions. But they didn't come. He sighed softly with relief. Torin was far from ready to discuss the details of this relationship their fathers had tried to force on them. Though he felt the coward for it, he chose not to approach the subject.

"I had the tavern keeper prepare us a lunch to eat along the way." He gestured behind them. "We'll stop whenever you get tired."

"Tavern?" A hint of scandal wrapped around her tone. He suppressed a surge of irritation at her apparent disapproval.

"Aye, 'tis where I stayed last night, the only place in Ballyvaughn that takes in lodgers. I knew your ship would be docking early and Mum insisted I be here the moment you arrived."

"Oh, of course," Alaina said, her gaze fastened upon her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "That was very kind of her...of you both. Thank you."

They soon pa.s.sed a small limestone cottage. Sweet smelling turf smoke rose from the stone chimney. It drifted, thinning and then disappearing into the motionless spring air. A stooped, frail looking old woman stood scattering grain to a small flock of bedraggled chickens.

She lifted a hand in greeting. Her creaky voice called to them in Gaelic, a toothless smile creased her wrinkled face.

Torin nodded his head and smiled as he urged the mare to a slow walk. "Dia is Muire dhuit."

Alaina wished her father had taught her the language of his homeland. She sat, feeling isolated, but smiling politely. The woman's faded blue eyes bore into her unmercifully for a moment before she finally nodded and smiled again. Somehow, Alaina knew she had been accepted.

Further along the road they came upon three cottages set near one another. They looked to have been abandoned long ago. Thatch no longer covered the roofs and the gray limestone stood cold and bare under the bright spring sun. She watched as they rolled by, wondering who had once called these dwellings home.

"These have stood empty since the last famine," Torin said. "There are many like these dotting the countryside."

She glanced at him. How had he and his family survived the devastation all those years ago? As his gaze roamed over the ruins, Alaina thought she saw a bit of pain in his eyes. An emotion pa.s.sed over his face like a ripple on the water. She wanted to ask more about the blight. She remembered her father's lingering sadness for those he'd left behind and their suffering. But the look in Torin's eyes kept the words at bay. She hadn't the right to pry. They might be betrothed, but they were still strangers.

"Are there many farms in the area?" she asked instead.

"Aye, a few. Tenant farms only, though. Not like what you're used to I'm suremuch smaller. Some have a few cattle, others sheep and hens. 'Tis a hard life, farming the Burren. Not much reward in it. Most families are barely surviving."

Even as he spoke they neared a cottage where several children frolicked and played. They paused to stare at the carriage. Torin lifted a hand and called to them in Gaelic, his smile broad and warm. The children squealed with delight, waving madly before returning to their game.

Dry stone walls little higher than four feet wound their way around the cottage. Snaking up and down the pasture, they divided the land into long geometric patterns. Several heifers grazed languidly in the sweet clover. They raised their heads, large dark eyes watching the rig as it bounced and rattled along the rough terrain. Further and further they traveled as the sun climbed higher in the clear sky.

"It's so lovely!" The beauty momentarily made her forget to be more reticent. "I saw houses just like those on the islands we pa.s.sed. A sailor told me they were the Aran Islands, I think."

"Aye, those would be Inisheer, Inishmaan, and Inishmore. Some say time stands still there and always will. 'Tis there and all along the coast that you can still hear Gaelic spoken. Most of the Irish have forgotten. They were forced to forget, but we haven't. Some of the old ones and even the younger children don't know English at all."

He began to tell her about the history of the islands and the villages dotting Ireland's western sh.o.r.es.

"This area is called boireann or The Burren-the rocky land," he said. "There aren't many trees, mostly some holly and the hawthorn, but they don't grow very big. There are a lot of flowers, as well. Mum knows them all by heart and loves to educate the rest of us. 'Tis sure she'll take you exploring if you like. She's always wandering around the cliffs and over the clints."

"Clints?"

"Aye, slabs of stone. Just watch out for cracks along the way, they can be treacherous if you aren't minding your steps."

As they rode along the b.u.mpy path and he spoke, Alaina watched the scenery. The route they traveled crossed the great limestone clints that flowed over the land like a long forgotten cobblestone street, cracked and broken with neglect. Numerous plants took root and sprung up from the deep crevices. All around the pavements, the pastures rolled like a deep green carpet. It reached to the distant hills, which sloped up toward the horizon in stripes of green interspersed with the gray limestone. A haphazard mixture of brightly colored flowers in dark red, fuchsia, blue, yellow and white adorned the landscape.

How anything could grow and thrive in such a hard, dry place was beyond her imagination.

Torin smiled. "'Tis a marvel anything survives the boireann," he said, as if reading her thoughts. "Old Cromwell's general, Ludlow, scouted the area once. I'm afraid the gentleman did not find it to his liking. He wrote, 'It was a country in which there was not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang him, nor earth enough to bury him, which last is so scarce that the inhabitants steal it from one another.'"

She looked at him with surprise at the trace of humor in his voice. "Doesn't that upset you? I mean, what he wrote about your homeland? And implying the people would steal dirt?"

Torin shrugged. "I love the land, Miss Ryan, but I know the truth of it. What the man wrote is quite accurate. He just failed to see beyond the obvious and enjoy the beauty. Sometimes the true worth of things is in how a man looks at them. Besides," his voice quieted and he leaned a bit closer. "That well might be why the English left our little corner alone."

Alaina gazed at him for a moment, mesmerized by the sparkle in his deep green eyes. She glanced away. He emanated strength and power, qualities she normally feared most in men. Yet, the warmth of his smile drew her like the ebbing ocean tide that pulled at the sand. She fought off the urge to follow the current and lean into him.

His deep, musical voice soon enchanted her. After a time, the words made little sense yet she couldn't help but listen to the smooth timbre of his somewhat familiar brogue. His tones were more polished than her father's and struck a chord to make her feel somewhat at ease.

Her thoughts wandered as she strove to listen to his stories of wars and famines, politics and religion. Such sadness the beautiful land held, and yet he managed to turn the horror of days gone by into an inspiring tale of hope and perseverance. In the process, he expressed a powerful love for land and country.

She glanced at him more and more. By the time they'd gone through the ghosts of the past, every detail of his profile etched itself in her mind.

Even as she admired his knowledge and education, her gaze wandered over his face. A strong, square jaw and chin spoke of strength and stubbornness. His straight nose and high cheekbones testified of n.o.ble heritage. She admired the long, thick lashes that framed his green eyes. Last of all, she noticed the laugh lines at the corners of those eyes and around his firm mouth. Despite his serious manner since their short acquaintance, they spoke of humor and echoed the laughter she had briefly glimpsed in his gaze.

The carriage b.u.mped over a deep crevice, jostling her from the wandering thoughts. Alaina realized she had been staring. He sensed it also and turned to meet her gaze.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ryan," he said with a smile. "I must be boring you to tears. I'm afraid I've never been very good at polite conversation. History is my love, my pa.s.sion. I teach it at the state school in Dublin and do get a bit carried away."

"Oh no!" She felt guilty that he might think such a thing because of her indiscretion. "You have been the perfect companion, Mr. O'Brien. I am at fault. I do apologize for not being more attentive."

Her cheeks burned. She stared at her fingers twisted in together in her lap. As the silence lingered, Alaina couldn't resist looking up again and found him watching her, the horse all but forgotten.

"Are you feeling hungry yet, Miss Ryan?" Torin asked.

She nodded. "A little, yes."

"Good, Mum would give me a kick if I brought you all the way to Doolin without your having had a meal," he said with a wry grin. "There's a nice spot just ahead where we can stop and water the horse while we're at it. Your father might like a bit of a rest."

Torin veered off the road. Alaina watched as a shallow lake came into view. A dozen or more waterfowl swam in the greenish-gray waters, many of them taking flight upon their arrival.

"The turloughs flood in the winter, and then by the time summer is half gone, most of them are dry as bone," Torin told her as he brought the mare to a halt.

"It looks very shallow." She scanned the small body of water.

"Aye, this one is nearly dry already. There are a few that hold the water longer, and it depends on how wet a season we might be having."

After helping Alaina down, Torin unhitched the mare and led her to the water, leaving the old horse's reins loose so that she could graze while they ate. They woke Patrick and helped him to his chair so he could enjoy their picnic as well. Then Torin retrieved the basket from the carriage and spread a blanket on the gra.s.s near the water, putting the hamper on top of it. He turned Alaina with a hand held out in invitation.

"Old Mavis should be comfortable enough now," he said, nodding at the mare. "Come, let's see what's packed for us."

His eyes sparkled like the sunlight off the deep waters of Galway Bay. Alaina laid her hand in his, trembling slightly as she allowed him to help her sit down before lowering himself beside her.

While the sun shone bright, it did little to warm the chilly spring air. Alaina gathered her cloak tightly about her, nestling in its warmth as she sat on the rough blanket near her father. She watched Torin's every movement, entranced by the fluid grace with which he held himself. She envied his self-a.s.sured nature-it reminded her of her brother, Michael.

Peering into the basket, he grinned. It was such a boyish expression that she couldn't help but smile. Torin glanced up and caught her staring again. Alaina dropped her gaze. Why must she blush like a schoolgirl whenever he glanced her way?

"Cold poached salmon... hard boiled eggs... soda bread, and I do believe a generous helping of applesauce cake." Torin listed the contents with an appreciative tone. "A meal fit for kings, don't you agree, Mr. Ryan?"

"Aye, that it is," her father replied.

"If it had been just me, I'd wager O'Bannion would have thrown in yesterday's bread and some moldy cheese."

"O'Bannion?" Her father's eyes lit with curiosity. "Jack O'Bannion?"

"Aye," Torin said with a smile. "He runs the tavern in Ballyvaughn. Our meal is his handiwork. Made a fuss getting things just right when he heard you were coming home."

Patrick smiled. "I wish I'd known. I'd like to see old Jack again."

Torin carefully set some food wrapped in a napkin on Patrick's lap. "I'm sure it can be arranged. There's been talk of having a ceili to celebrate your homecoming. I can make sure Jack knows about it."