Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Interview with The 42nd Royal Highland Regiment

Today is a special day here at The Celtic Rose and I am excited to share with you my interview with The 42nd Royal Highland Regiment.

I have had the pleasure of watching these men perform on many occasions and I can honestly tell you that it is a wonderful experience each time.

http://www.sarahwellmeierphotography.com/
I hope you will sit back and read along as I introduce to you The 42nd Royal Highland Regiment and their fierce leader, Preston Smith.

*Preston, thank you very much for joining me here today. I would like to start off with an explanation of who The 42nd are.

PRESTON-
The 42nd Royal Highlanders is America’s Premier band of pipes, fifes, and drums. We portray the 42nd Royal Highlanders (aka today as The Black Watch), of the American Revolution era (~1777).

The 42nd Regiment was the most senior of all the Highland Regiments – first coming to North America in 1756 for the French and Indian War. The regiment fought in a famous but ill-fated attack on Fort Ticonderoga in 1758, and was given the title of “Royal Highlanders”. The 42nd traveled to western PA in the early 1760s, and down the Ohio in 1765 to the Mississipipi River to take possession of Fort de Chartres at the end of the war.

During the War for Independence, the 42nd fought throughout New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.

The 42nd band of music portrays the 42nd of the Revolution – and fields the highland pipes, 6-hole fifes, and the rope-tension drums that would have been on the field during the revolution – the only such band in the US.




*Why were they called ‘The Black Watch’?

PRESTON-
Before becoming a Regiment of the line, the 42nd served as Independent Companies of the Highland Watch in Scotland – essentially law enforcement.

The origin of the name “The Black Watch” is murky – some say it’s a reference to the distinctive dark tartan worn by the regiment; some say it’s a reference to the Watch’s “black hearts” policing their own people; and others believe it’s a reference to their watch of the “black trade” – cattle rustling.

The Black Watch became the official name of the regiment in the late 1800s, and today the 3rd Battallion of the Royal Regiment of Scotland carries on the lineage of the 42nd.



*How did this group come to be formed in Lafayette, IN?

PRESTON-
In the early 1970s, Thomas Griffin was a director of the Tippecanoe Ancient Fife and Drum Corps, also from Lafayette. Around 1975, the bicentennial brought out a resurgence of 18th century music, particularly corps of fifes and drums.

Being of Scottish descent, and a piper, Tom set out in 1975 to create a unit that would carry on the history of the regiment, and bring Scottish field music to the world of 18th century music.



*What is the goal of this group?

PRESTON-
     ·        To present an authentic-looking portrayal of the men and music of the 1777 42nd Royal Highlanders
·        To present a unique program of 18th century Scottish field music, with elements of the state of the art in piping, fifing, and drumming
·        And to be the group that everybody else wants to be!

*How many participate in the group and what are the instruments involved?

PRESTON-
We field around 25 men at full strength, in several different sections:
·        8 bagpipers
·        4-5 fifers
·        6 drummers
·        6 color guard – uniformed as private soldiers of the regiment

During band performances, in addition to the music of the pipes, fifes, and drums,  a show by the 42nd will feature demonstrations of the arms drill used by British soldiers during the revolution, and Highland Dancing. The 42nd’s regimental dancers will perform either the Highland Fling or the Sword Dance.



*What kind of events does The 42nd perform at?

PRESTON-
Being such a unique group, the 42nd can fit in just about anywhere – many of our regular performances are at historical festivals like the Feast of the Hunter’s Moon, Mississinewa 1812, or the Fort DeChartres Rendezvous. The band will also perform at civic events around central Indiana, parades, and pub performances.

On occasion, the 42nd will appear at large fife and drum gatherings (a “muster”), or will appear at a Highland Games, which are always interesting. We’re not quite a fife and drum corps, and not quite a regular pipe band, so for either of these audiences, the 42nd is something new and unique.


*How does a person become a member of The 42nd?

PRESTON-
There’s a number of different ways to be involved with the 42nd – men interested in 18th century music or military life can participate in the band of music; anybody interested in Scottish Country Dancing can take classes with our partner group “The Whole 9 Yards”. In recent years, our camp life at festivals has even begun to incorporate civilians in support of the band and military.

If volunteering is more your speed, the Forfar Bridie booth at the Feast of the Hunter’s Moon is one of our major fundraisers – volunteering for a shift is an excellent way to contribute.

Or if you just like to be involved in things Scottish, you can sign up for the 42nd’s mailing list or Facebook page, and participate in cultural events – we’ve hosted a Robert Burns Supper every January for nearly 30 years, we hold events like Whisky tastings, golf outings, hold concerts, or arrange trips to see Scottish performers. All of these things can’t happen without volunteers!


*Can you tell us a little bit about the CD’s you have out and where we can find them? 

PRESTON-
In 2010, we released our 2nd recording – “No Matter What the Season”, featuring 22 tracks of music of the pipes, fifes, and drums. It’s available for purchase via mail, iTunes, or Amazon MP3, and features many of our newest arrangements that you can hear today when we perform live. If you visit our web site, you can preview all of the tracks on the CD.

Here is a link to our performance of “Highland Cathedral” at Freezer Jam 2011 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDZMF3930vs

We also have our first (1996 – self-titled) CD available on iTunes or Amazon MP3.

*To learn more information about The 42nd Royal Highland regiment, where can you be found? 

PRESTON-
You can find us on the web at http://www.42ndRHR.org, or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/42ndRHR



Preston, I want to thank you again for taking the time to talk with us today. I look forward to watching The 42nd perform soon and wish you all luck in the future.

PRESTON-
You’re very welcome – I hope to meet some of your readers as we perform around the Midwest this season!

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Tis the Season for HIGHLAND GAMES

Spring is upon us and the season is already underway...for Scottish Highland Games, that is. Many American and Canadian citizens can trace their roots back to Scotland. Some of these people celebrate these relationships by organizing, volunteering at, and attending Highland games. Doing so helped me come up with the idea for several books. To be surrounded by people dressed in Highland attire, ancient plaids, and weaponry gave me fodder for my historical paranormal, DRAGONS CURSE, and for several other books in the works.


When I first met the man I was destined to marry, his grandfather and father had already researched their Scottish ancestry. Both a grandfather and grandmother hailed from Scottish clans, in this case Gunn and MacBean. We have attended the New Hampshire Highland Games from the time they started back in 1975. In the early 1980s, my husband began his long stint volunteering. I stayed home with the boys until the youngest showed an interest in his Scottish lineage, then also volunteered. Marching bands, odd looking food, and colorful kilts amid the spectacular fall foliage of the New Hampshire’s White Mountains made for memorable days.


The New Hampshire games has turned into an annual three day event, now visited by over 40,000 people! We volunteer as a family and, even though my husband and I moved to the south, we still travel to New England to offer our service under the information tent. Our sons join us to help us sell official programs, hand out maps and schedules of events, and sell raffle tickets, the proceeds of which fund scholarships for area students interested in pursuing the Scottish arts such as dancing, bagpipes, harp, and more.

This annual celebration has turned into a major undertaking and the Board of Directors and office staff work tirelessly to coordinate the many entertainment venues, clan representatives, venders of food and goods, vocal groups, and hundreds of volunteers in order to bring the sights, sounds, and flavors of Scotland to New England.

Volunteering every hour of the three days is too much to ask of anyone, since there is so much to do and see, so my husband and I gather several hardy individuals to share the load. This affords everyone with time to either go watch the sheep dog trials, taste the shortbread, scones, bridies and meat pies, shop the venders, or listen to rock bands. No one wants to miss the athletes as they toss the caber, a tree length wooden pole.

Many states, communities, and organizations host their own Highland games and these games welcome everyone…a Scottish lineage or kilt are not required! If you enjoy harps, bagpipes, Highland dance, wonderful food and a sea of brightly colored wool (and is there anything more sexy than a man in a kilt?) please visit a Highland games or Scottish festival soon.

Here are a few links to scheduled games that will help you on your way:

May 20-22 Smokey Mountain Highland Games
June 10-11 Kansas City Scottish Highland Games
June 25-26 San Diego Scottish Highland Games
July 7-10 The Grandfather Mountain Games in NC
July 30-31 Pacific Northwest Scottish Highland Games in WA
August 5-7 Celtic Roots Festival in Ontario
August 20 The Maine Highland Games in ME
August 28 The Vermont Highland Games in VT
Sept. 16-18 The New Hampshire Highland Games in NH
October 14-16 Stone Mountain Highland Games

These are only a few of the 2011 festivals available in the United States and Canada. For a complete list, visit the website of The Association of Scottish Games & Festivals
For a little more on the historical aspect of the games, read my article
HIGHLAND GAMES: THEN AND NOW:

Nancy Lee Badger writes fulltime and lives with her husband in Raleigh, NC. She loves everything Scottish. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, Fantasy-Futuristic & Paranormal Romance Writers, and Celtic Heart Romance Writers. Visit her website www.nancyleebadger.com, and her blog


DRAGON’S CURSE is available from Whispers Publishing, Amazon for Kindle, Barnes & Nobel for Nook.

Friday, April 29, 2011

NEW RELEASE: HISTORICAL ANTHOLOGY BY VICTORY TALES PRESS

I am so happy to say that my short story "Deirdre" will be available May 1, 2011 when Victory Tales Press releases its invitation-only Historical Anthology for spring, 2011.

"Deirdre" is a retelling of the ancient Irish tale, "Deirdre and the Sons of Usna" which has been told and written time out of mind in Ireland.  Born with a cursed beauty that will make kingdoms contest for her, Deirdre is also born with a mighty gift--that of a true heart.

Read her story plus a riveting Highlands tale and two stories drawn from American history in this sweet-to-sensual collection of stories from Victory Tales Press authors.

Buy links are:
http://victorytalespress.yolasite.com/online-store.php
https://www.createspace.com/3599298
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/56562  (not live until 5/1/11)
http://www.amazon.com/Historical-Collection-Anthology-Sweet-Sensual/dp/1461107555/
http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/a-historical-collection-anthology-sweetsensual/15585828 




I hope you will enjoy this anthology in print or as an ebook.




Friday, April 22, 2011

THE EASTER RISING IN IRELAND, 1916







With full credit to www.pittsburghirish.org

POBLACHT NA H EIREANN
THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT
OF THE
IRISH REPUBLIC
TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND
IRISHMEN AND IRISHWOMEN: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.
Having organised and trained her manhood through her secret revolutionary organisation, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and through her open military organisations, the Irish Volunteers and the Irish Citizen Army, having patiently perfected her discipline, having resolutely waited for the right moment to reveal itself, she now seizes that moment, and, supported by her exiled children in America and by gallant allies in Europe, but relying in the first on her own strength, she strikes in full confidence of victory.
We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland, and to the unfettered control of Irish destinies, to be sovereign and indefeasible. The long usurpation of that right by a foreign people and government has not extinguished the right, nor can it ever be extinguished except by the destruction of the Irish people. In every generation the Irish people have asserted their right to national freedom and sovereignty; six times during the last three hundred years they have asserted it to arms. Standing on that fundamental right and again asserting it in arms in the face of the world, we hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a Sovereign Independent State, and we pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades-in-arms to the cause of its freedom, of its welfare, and of its exaltation among the nations.
The Irish Republic is entitled to, and hereby claims, the allegiance of every Irishman and Irishwoman. The Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens, and declares its resolve to pursue the happiness and prosperity of the whole nation and all of its parts, cherishing all of the children of the nation equally and oblivious of the differences carefully fostered by an alien government, which have divided a minority from the majority in the past.
Until our arms have brought the opportune moment for the establishment of a permanent National, representative of the whole people of Ireland and elected by the suffrages of all her men and women, the Provisional Government, hereby constituted, will administer the civil and military affairs of the Republic in trust for the people.
We place the cause of the Irish Republic under the protection of the Most High God. Whose blessing we invoke upon our arms, and we pray that no one who serves that cause will dishonour it by cowardice, in humanity, or rapine. In this supreme hour the Irish nation must, by its valour and discipline and by the readiness of its children to sacrifice themselves for the common good, prove itself worthy of the august destiny to which it is called.
Signed on Behalf of the Provisional Government.
  • Thomas J. Clarke,
    Sean Mac Diarmada,
  • Thomas MacDonagh,
    P. H. Pearse,
  • Eamonn Ceannt,
    James Connolly,
  • Joseph Plunkett



Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Bid and win a critique by an agent

Crits for Water is auctioning critiques by Agent Marissa Iozzi Corvisiero at 12:00 am and 9:00 am on April 12; and at 9:00 am on April 13 EST. www.mycharitywater.org
mycharitywater.org

Friday, April 8, 2011

CELTIC HEARTS GOLDEN CLADDAGH CONTEST


For information and a great video on this annual writers' contest, go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFSMRF-WEDw

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED BY THE CELTIC ROSE!!!

Monday, March 21, 2011

New Irish Romance by Cynthia Owens

Coming Home, the long-awaited sequel to In Sunshine or in Shadow, my “classic Irish romance” (TCM Reviews), will hit the bookshelves at the end of March.

This book is very special to me. It’s all about fathers and daughters, family, and returning to your roots. It’s about the healing power of love, and learning to trust your heart.

It’s also dedicated to my late father. Dad passed away suddenly only a few short weeks before In Sunshine or in Shadow was released. He never got to hold my first book in his hands, but I know he was reading over my shoulder. And I know he’s proud of me.

I hope you’ll enjoy the excerpt.


About the book:

“A woman's love is strong, more powerful than all the ghosts in Ireland...”

Daughter of a village girl, step-daughter of an Irish landlord, Ashleen O’Brien was never certain where she belonged. But after a year in America, she yearns to return to the green land that is her heart’s home.

War and betrayal had taken everything from Cavan Callaghan – his home, his family, and the woman he loved. A hero of the Irish Brigade’s Antietem campaign, he’s seeking the Irish family he never knew.

Love and treachery await Cavan and Ashleen along those emerald shores, as the ghosts of a past that can never quite be forgotten rise to threaten their newfound happiness.

A heartwarming visit to a nineteenth century Irish village filled with memorable characters, post-famine intrigue, and bittersweet romance.
 ~ Pat McDermott, author of A Band of Roses


Excerpt:

Prologue


The Atlantic Ocean, 1867


He was going home.
Home. Such a simple word. And for so long now, such an unattainable dream.
Yet as he stood on the deck of the Mary O’Connor, he thought maybe he’d finally find a real home once again.
When Johnny comes marching home again . . .
He looked seaward. The salt wind tugged at his hair. Spray stung his eyes. Gulls wheeled and shrieked overhead. Open water lay beyond the horizon, and beyond that still, his new life. In a few weeks, the Mary O’Connor would dock in Galway Bay, and from there he’d head for the small village his parents had spoken of with such love. He felt a stirring of emotion, the first spark of excitement since—
Deliberately he cut off the thought. He was no longer a soldier. There would be no more Rebel yells, no more guns, no more battles. He was no longer Captain Callaghan, so-called hero of the Irish Brigade.
He was just plain Cavan Callaghan, an Irishman searching for peace.
What would Ireland be like? For as long as he could remember, he’d heard his parents speak wistfully of the country they’d left behind. The green fields and sea-swept coast. The heather-strewn countryside filled with wild strawberries and prickly gorse. They’d spoken of the people, too, but especially of his father’s brother.
The last of the Flynns now, except for himself.
His mother had said the village of Ballycashel lay some nine miles from Galway City. What would he find there? He knew about the Hunger, of course. Had any of his family survived?
 Or would he find the same devastation he’d confronted on his return from the war?
 A ripple of sound floating on the briny breeze told him he wasn’t alone. Recognizing the delicate notes of a penny whistle, he glanced around. One of his fellow passengers, obviously an Irishman, lowered the instrument from his lips and smiled, his foot tapping in jig time.
The piper began playing anew, and a raw slash of anguish ripped through Cavan’s gut. He knew the words well, and the tune the man played so effortlessly and with such emotion.
He’d prayed never to hear them again.
The minstrel boy to the war has gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him . . .
He squeezed his eyes shut, the ‘ranks of death’ marching through his memory. So many friends, his comrades-in-arms, who would never return . . .
His brother.
With a hard shake of his head, he strode away from the haunting melody.
He was going home. And there he would find peace.
There would be no more war.







Chapter One


“‘Twill not be long now.”
Ashleen O’Brien turned to the young man standing next to her on the deck of the Mary O’Connor. A steerage passenger, Danny O’Shea kept everyone on the ship entertained with sweet tunes and stories of the black-haired colleen he planned to marry when he returned to Ireland.
“‘Twill do all our hearts good to be home again,” Ashleen agreed with a smile. She could hardly wait to see her family. It had been so long.
“And have ye a young man waitin’ for you there?” A tease lurked in Danny’s blue eyes. “Sure, a lovely lass like yerself must have a string of young lads after ye.”
“Oh, a dozen at least. But none’s managed to catch me yet.”
“Or could be ye’re just waitin’ for the dark one to give you the twinkle of his eye?”
Startled, Ashleen looked up into Danny’s kindly face. So he too had noticed the tall, dark man who haunted the decks at all hours of the night, prowling restlessly as if driven by demons.
Who could help but notice him? He was easily six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a well-muscled frame. His raven curls constantly tumbled over his forehead in the stiff ocean breeze, and his dark-brown eyes could pierce a woman’s soul.
A gust of briny wind blew her hair into her eyes and she brushed it back with trembling fingers, trying without success to laugh off Danny’s probing question. “Ah, Danny, ‘tis you’re the born matchmaker, so you are. Sure, you go home and marry your darlin’ Maura. The only men I’ve any wish to see right now are my da and my little brothers.”
“I’ve seen the glances ye’ve been exchanging with him, lass.”
Ashleen shivered, drawing her fine cashmere shawl more closely about her shoulders. Katie had insisted on buying it for her as a farewell gift, saying the shades of blue and green exactly matched her eyes. To Ashleen, it had seemed a needless extravagance, yet now she welcomed its comforting warmth.
“Sure, Danny, ‘tis nothing but a bit of harmless flirtation.”
“Harmless if they both be unattached,” Danny retorted. “What do you know about this man? Nothing.” A wave crashed against the side of the ship, dashing water up and over the rail. “There be a storm brewin,’ and no mistake. Will ye go below, then?”
“Soon. I’ll see you later, Danny.”
Danny nodded and Ashleen watched him go. Probably he was thinking of his happy reunion with his Maura when the ship docked in Galway. She felt a tiny pang that no devoted lover awaited her, but it was quickly replaced by excitement at the thought of seeing her family again.
She’d had a wonderful year in America. Her sister Katie had taken her everywhere—the theatre, balls, musical teas. And she’d enjoyed meeting her young nieces and nephews. There’d been the races at Saratoga, too, where she’d gambled and won, and lazy days at Katie’s summer home in Cape May.
Katie had wanted to send her home first class, of course, but Ashleen wouldn’t hear of it. She wasn’t a grand society lady like her older sister. She was just plain Ashleen O’Brien, a peasant Irish girl, and she had no wish to pretend otherwise. A second-class cabin would do nicely, thank you very much.
Of course she’d enjoyed wearing pretty dresses and meeting fashionable people in America. It had been fun for a while. Yet even as she had danced and laughed and flirted with a dozen handsome boys, her soul had yearned to breathe the fresh, heather-scented air of her native land. She’d missed the cry of the sea birds and the sweet smell of the hawthorn. She longed to once again run barefooted along the Ballycashel strand or gallop her mare, Princess Niav, over the soft, spongy turf.
Now she was finally going home. She’d missed her mother and her stepfather, her young brothers and sister, and her great-grandmother, Grannie Meg. And she longed to see her Uncle Tom and Aunt Nora, her mother’s best friends, and their three little girls. And Paddy Devlin, who was like a big brother to her, and played the penny whistle almost as well as Danny. And Liam Brady, a great friend of Grannie Meg, whose magical hands could make his grandfather’s fiddle sob or chuckle at a second’s notice.
Oh, ‘twould be so wonderful to see them all!
And yet, as she’d told Danny, there was no young man eagerly awaiting her return, no suitor hoping for her hand. There’d never been anyone special at home. Most of the local boys kept their distance because of who she was—Ashleen O’Brien, the girl who didn’t quite belong. She knew Katie had hoped she’d meet some young man in America, perhaps fall in love and marry. But she couldn’t bear the thought of living away from her beloved Ireland.
The wind whipped around her, sending spray rushing up from the sea to make her skin tingle. She laughed out loud, shaking back her hair, reveling in the freedom the ship offered. If only she could make the winds blow them faster, faster, toward the home of her heart.
Ballycashel . . .
A sudden movement beside her made her turn. She caught her breath, her heart leaping in her chest and hanging suspended for an endless moment.
Him.
He was watching her, a tiny smile lifting the corners of his full, sensual mouth. His eyes were dark and rich as American chocolate and framed by luxuriant black lashes. Coal-black curls blowing back in the wind exposed a high forehead and finely sculpted cheekbones. His skin was deeply tanned, with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His ancient Aran sweater— was the pattern familiar?—emphasized the width of his shoulders, and his worn breeches looked as if they’d been molded by years of hard riding. He stood ramrod straight, an air of command about him as compelling as it was intimidating.
He was the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was low and gravelly with just a faint hint of Irishness. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, you didn’t. I was just—” she broke off, afraid she would sound foolish, yet equally terrified he might leave—“just . . . remembering.”
“You have a wonderful laugh.”
Heat rose to her cheeks, and it wasn’t from the bite of the wind. “I . . . thank you.”
Their eyes met, and Ashleen became acutely aware of their surroundings. The high-pitched cries of the gulls sounded sweeter than they had a moment ago, the sounds of the waves the loveliest of music. The briny scent of the ocean filled her nostrils and dusted her lips with salt.
But all she really saw was him.
“My name’s Cavan—Cavan Callaghan.”
Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. “I’m Ashleen O’Brien.”
“You’re Irish.” It was a statement, not a question, and Ashleen couldn’t help but smile.
“And you’re American.”
He smiled back, melting her insides and weakening her knees. “I’m as Irish as you are.”
Her eyes widened. “You talk like an American.”
The rising wind blew a lock of her hair across her eyes. Cavan raised one hand and gently smoothed it back, his fingers barely touching her. Yet that touch burned right to her soul.
“I may talk like an American,” he acknowledged, abruptly dropping his hand, “but I’m just as Irish as you are, even though I haven’t your lovely accent. I was born in County Galway.” He hesitated, a shadow of pain flashing across his face. “My father brought us to America when I was little.”
“During the Hunger?”
“A few years before.”
She took a moment to digest that surprising bit of information. Cavan Callaghan had lived most of his life in America. Why was he returning to Ireland now? Did he merely want to see the country of his birth? Did he plan to settle there? Or was he, like Danny O’Shea, planning to marry a sweetheart when he arrived?
A tiny pang stirred her.
As if reading her thoughts, Cavan said conversationally, “My mother and dad spoke so often of Ireland, I decided to come see the place for myself.” His voice hardened as he continued, “I may still have family there, although I can’t be sure.”
Before she could ask him any more, a wild gust of rain-drenched wind blew in from the sea, saturating them both.
Reluctantly, Ashleen said, “We should be getting below decks.”
“Yes, we should,” he agreed, but made no move to leave.
Torrents of rain pummeled the deck, but neither of them moved. Cavan reached out to trace one finger along her cheek and under her chin, bringing her gaze up to lock with his. His touch was gentle, the callused pad of his finger not quite abrasive. His eyes flared with a fire she didn’t quite understand. “I want to see you again, Ashleen O’Brien.”
She swallowed hard. This was so different from the meaningless flirtations she had known up to now. “I . . .” She faltered, feeling almost on the verge of tears. Oh, how she longed to see this dark man again! “We’ve at least another week. The ship doesn’t reach Galway until then.”
His voice deepened with something like urgency. “Will you be on deck tomorrow?”
“I—”
Will you?”
She took a tiny step back, shaking her head to clear it, trying in vain to sort out her whirling emotions. Yet in the end, there was only one reply she could give—one reply she wanted to give. “I . . .  yes.”
“Tomorrow, then.” His hand lingered on her cheek, the touch so intensely tender she almost cried out with dismay when he dropped his hand. Then he spun and strode away, his dark head bent against the rain.
Ashleen stood there a moment longer, watching him go, one hand on her cheek where his fingers had been. She yearned to keep the memory of his touch forever.
* * * *
Cavan automatically adjusted his long strides to the rolling motion of the ship as he made his way to his second-class cabin. But his mind wasn’t on the coming storm, or even on the fact that soon he would be in Ireland.
He was thinking about the girl.
He’d noticed her the very first day. How could he have missed her, laughing and talking with the other passengers? She was as much at home among the steerage folk as she was with the first-class passengers. But he’d never been able to catch her alone.
Until now.
She’d looked so lovely on deck, gazing out over the ocean, her red-gold hair whipping around her shoulders, her fair Celtic complexion pinkened by the cool sea wind. And her eyes. The most glorious shade of blue-green he’d ever seen, like deep, turquoise pools, filled with life and promise.
But it was her laugh that really captured his attention. He’d heard it before, of course. But never had it sounded so free, like the pealing of a thousand silver bells, joyous and loving. Healing.
For a few minutes, standing beside a beautiful Irish girl on the deck of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, Cavan felt there might be light again. The darkness in his soul had receded, leaving a tiny flare of joy.
Could he learn to live again? Not just exist from one day to the next, but actively participate in everything life had to offer? For so long he had lived in shadow—even before he’d come home to find everything and everyone he’d loved gone forever.
Now, alone in his cabin, he looked into the future and saw a tiny light at the end of his very dark existence.
But could it last?
The nagging question taunted him. How could anything so good last? Nothing ever lasted—at least, not for him. Not his family, not the farm. And certainly not Sam.
Better to keep it light and casual. He would see her again. He couldn’t stay away, even if he wanted to. He was drawn to her in some mysterious way he couldn’t fathom. Her beauty and spirit were irresistible.
But he must limit the relationship to casual flirtation. Nothing more.
For that was all it could ever be.
* * * *
Ashleen sat curled in a chair in her small, well-appointed second-class cabin, a book of Shakespeare sonnets in her hand and a pot of hot chocolate on the little marble-topped table beside her. Outside, the ship’s steam engines pulsed while waves pounded the bulkhead. But the chocolate had gone cold, she hadn’t turned a page in long minutes, and she scarcely heard the noise of the storm.
Her mind was too full of him.
She thought of Cavan Callaghan now as he had been on deck, tall and broad and, oh, so very masculine. His wonderful smile had reflected in his eyes, which were surrounded by tiny lines. Were they evidence of a sense of humor? Yet she sensed a darkness in him. Could those lines have come from squinting into the sun? Or glaring at an enemy, perhaps during the war that had nearly torn his country apart? Was he haunted by a painful past?
And his touch! So gentle, so tender, yet sensation had burned through her like wildfire. She’d wanted him to go on touching her. She’d even wanted to touch him in return, to explore the texture of his black curls, feel the roughness of his clean-shaven chin, touch her lips to his . . .
Shocked at her wanton thoughts, Ashleen jumped up from her chair, nearly toppling the pot of chocolate as her book tumbled to the floor. Hurriedly she began to undress, hoping the activity would cool her heated longings. She slipped into the lace-trimmed nightrail her mother had made for her before she’d left Ireland, but her trembling fingers snagged in the leather string she wore around her neck. Carefully untangling them, she stared down at the tiny pendant, a small reminiscent smile playing about her mouth.
Made from Connemara marble, the precious stone was like wearing a little bit of home. Tom, who’d been like an uncle to her as long as she could remember, had given it to her just before she’d gone to America.
Ashleen had always had a special bond with Tom Flynn. He’d stood by Ashleen’s mother during some of the worst times in her life. For a while he’d been almost a surrogate father to Ashleen. But even more than that, Tom had been her father’s best friend.
Ashleen had never known her real father, who had died when she was only two. And though she adored Rory O’Brien, who’d adopted her shortly after the birth of her little brother, Sean, she’d longed to learn more about the man who’d sired her.
Tom had told her about Michael Desmond, of his childhood, the young man he’d been when courting Siobhán Kilpatrick, the rebel he’d become as he’d watched his desperate neighbors die during the Hunger.
“Michael was my best friend from the time we were boys,” Tom had told her when he’d given her the pendant the night before she’d left for New York. “And your mother was like a little sister to me. I love you just as much as I do my own three lassies.”
Tenderly she stroked one finger over the pendant, watching the colors sparkle and swirl in the soft lamplight. What would Michael Desmond have thought of Cavan Callaghan? Would her father have approved of the handsome young man who had touched her so gently—touched not only her cheek, but her soul? Or would he have been distrustful of the darkness in him?
Tom would know.
Ashleen had to laugh at the absurdly romantic thought as she climbed into her bunk and extinguished the lamp. She had exchanged a few flirtatious words with a young man. That was all. Nothing would come of it. In a week or so, the Mary O’Connor would dock in Galway, and they would go their separate ways. They’d probably never see each other again.
She tried to ignore the pang of sadness that gripped her at the thought.