Through the Door (The Thin Veil) - By Jodi McIsaac Page 0,68

he looked at them. The setting sun glanced off his fair skin, giving him the appearance of an angel, or a ghost. He smiled at them and stood.

“He’s coming this way!” Siobhan squealed under her breath, and Maeve shushed her.

“Ladies,” the angel-man said, nodding at them.

“H-h-hi,” Siobhan stammered. Maeve stood silent, transfixed. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, framed by thick black brows. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and when he smiled at them the most incredible dimples indented his cheeks. His lips looked like they would refuse to take no for an answer, and Maeve found herself wondering what he would taste like.

“We didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Not at all,” he said. “Is this your first time to Newgrange?”

“Yes,” Siobhan injected enthusiastically. “Do you come here often?” She moved slightly in front of Maeve and thrust out her considerable chest. Maeve frowned, but didn’t try to put herself back in the man’s line of sight.

She thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he answered, “Mmm, once in a while. I have relatives buried nearby. I come to visit their graves.”

“Oh, I see. Well, perhaps you could show us around!” Siobhan stood there beaming at him. Maeve looked past both of them to the hill looming in front, and wondered what kind of people were buried here. How interesting it would be to have relatives interred so close to such an ancient site.

She noticed he was holding out his hand to her. “Brogan mac Airgetlam,” he said. She took his hand and shook it. His grip was gentle but firm, and she could feel calluses on his palm. She felt slightly light-headed at his touch, but then mastered herself and smiled back at him, enjoying the way his eyes lit up when she did. Though nothing compared with him, she herself was not lacking in beauty. She was tall for her age, and had hearty curves that complemented the bouncing red curls that spilled down her back to her waist. In contrast, Siobhan was unremarkable save for her impressive bosom. Apparently, she also had a weaker constitution, for when Brogan reached out and shook her hand, she fell to the ground in a dead faint.

Once Maeve and Brogan had revived her and Siobhan had mumbled something about not eating all day, the three of them climbed to the top of the hill to watch the sunset. Later that night, at Brogan’s request, Maeve made her apologies to Siobhan at their youth hostel and met him for a drink, not returning to her cousin until daybreak.

That night was the first of many spent together over the next several years. He never stayed around long, usually just a night or two, maybe a week at most. At first, he refused to tell her what he did or where he lived, instead making her guess, laughing at her theories about spies and secret missions as he trailed soft kisses down the length of her spine. When she returned to Nova Scotia to start college, he promised to visit her as often as he had in Ireland, and he was true to his word. She gave up trying to find out more about him and, truth be told, enjoyed the intrigue of having a mystery lover. She tried dating college boys, but they were so inferior to her Brogan that she soon gave up on them as well, and just waited for him to make his next appearance.

He told her the truth on the morning of her twentieth birthday. They were lying in her bed, listening to the sputter of the coffeemaker in the next room. He rolled over so that he was looking down at her, and she reached up to cup his face, marveling at the beauty of it.

“I have a gift for you,” he said.

“Do you, now?” she said coquettishly. “Am I going to have to guess what it is?”

“You’ve been guessing since we met,” he answered. She raised her eyebrows.

“My gift is the truth,” he said, “about who I am and where I come from.”

Maeve sat up, pushing her thick red curls behind her shoulder. She felt her pulse quicken with excitement and anticipation.

“Let me guess one more time,” she said, trying to suppress her nerves with lighthearted banter. “You’re the great Fionn mac Cumhaill, awake at last to help Ireland in her hour of great need.”

A shadow crossed his face, and she wondered if she had somehow offended him