A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,87

- by the time the ladies of Margaree were finished with him, he would. A grumpy bachelor was no match for tough Scottish grannies with a need to dance.

He stared at her for the longest time, not moving. And then he reached into his pocket and held up the fist not occupied by Mildred's pastry. "My aunt says that flowers have a language. Each one has a meaning." He surveyed the contents of his hand. "I'm hoping these do as well."

She looked. A mess of random pebbles and pretty colors, some still damp from ocean waters and winter rain. And nestled in their midst, the three that mattered.

A large and craggy bit of granite, too big to be a mere pebble. He probably thought it was ugly.

A small and sparkly treasure the color of Morgan's eyes.

And a rock in vivid green.

An offer. From a man who'd stopped in the middle of a manic drive in the dead of winter to pick stones from a beach.

Muddled joy grabbed Cass's throat. "I've never been a pebble before."

"I've never been a lot of things before," he said, so quietly she barely heard him. "But I'd like to try."

It was the first time she'd ever seen his gentleness leak all the way to the outside.

She laid her palm over his, the bits of granite and green and sparkle cupped between their hands. "Okay."

And then grinned up at him, sunshine bright, as the people of Margaree did a decent approximation of a jubilant human earthquake.

People never applauded for him.

As he felt joy bloom in Cass's mind and heard the ruckus bust loose around them, that was the single fragment of clarity left in Marcus Buchanan's brain.

The applause was never for him.

He looked down at their cupped hands, and then back up at her radiant face.

And oblivious to pastry and pebbles hitting the floor, pulled her in close.

He tucked the joyous, vibrant, defiant Cassidy Farrell under his chin, tight against his heart. And simply swayed. She fit. He had no idea how their story ended just yet. But she fit.

Perhaps he wasn't a totally incompetent knight errant after all.
Chapter 22

Ah, what a momentous day for so many people.

Moira stood in the middle of the main and only road of Fisher's Cove, loving the chaotic beauty that flowed around her.

Every villager in town, including Andy on his crutches, had come to send the travelers off.

An enormous bus sat on the road, Cassidy Farrell's larger-than-life face next to dancing letters proclaiming the great Swordfights and Lullabies tour of 2013.

It was going to be a short tour.

And according to her manager, one booked to the gills. The sharp and funny man with the promising name of Tommy had driven the bus into town the day before. Here to pick up his girl - and promising to bring her back.

He'd sworn the latter over a cup of tea at Moira's table. And behind the swagger and the big-city attitude, she'd seen enough love for their Celtic fiddler to believe him.

Things were moving fast enough to have even the most romantic hearts swooning - and the more practical ones hopping trying to get all the details in order. You didn't take a baby on a road trip without a multitude of those.

And Marcus was as marvelously befuddled as Moira had ever seen him. She linked elbows with the old woman beside her. It had taken Nan Cassidy two whole cups of tea to recover from her trip through the Internet.

And then they'd set to blessing the bus with a vengeance. It would travel with all the protection two Irish grannies could muster.

"It's really happening, isn't it?" Sophie joined them on the side of the road, three insulated cups in her hands. "Morgan's all excited about her bus ride."

Sophie and Elorie had quietly taken care of getting a toddler and her daddy ready for an epic journey. Clothes, blankies, and hand-knit teddy bears, all safely stashed away in their new home on wheels. Video of swordfights and daffodils and Lizzie singing sweet Irish lullabies to remind Morgan of home. Moira sniffled. "I'll miss them so."

Sophie smiled. "They can port back any time they want. Nell's got it all set up. And you can port to the bus for a visit any time you want." She nudged Nan. "That goes for you as well."

Tears pricked green eyes. "It will take me a while to work up my nerve again. But I will."

Moira knew something about old Irish nerves. She suspected the bus would