you could call it a drop. Soft Irish rain, more mist than true rain, was cool on her face. It felt good, she had to admit, though she had no desire to be soaked to the skin. Not in this cool weather. She should’ve bought the raincoat instead of the sweater.
Echo’s stomach growled. With the time difference she didn’t know what meal her body was asking for, but it was definitely time to eat. Given the way the town square had suddenly become deserted, it would be a waste of time to head back that way. Instead of getting behind the wheel of the rental car she turned left and ducked into the pub with the weird name. The stone building, which didn’t have a single first-story window, wasn’t exactly what she’d call inviting, but surely the pub served food of some kind. At this point anything would do. Maybe her head would clear once she’d had something to eat.
The Drunken Stone was dimly lit, all dark wood and dark leather and beer advertisements. One table in the far corner was occupied by three older, gray-haired men. Was Ryder Duncan sitting there? Not that any one of them looked like a powerful wizard. She didn’t look much like a prophet, so what did appearances mean? Nothing, really.
While she had found mention of Duncan in the Raintree records, there weren’t many details. There definitely hadn’t been a photo. All she really knew was that he was a teacher, and he lived in—or at least had once lived in—Cloughban.
One of the men actually looked like a garden gnome come to life, with a squished face and a tremendous nose, but he was a bit taller than any gnome she’d ever seen—just a bit—and he didn’t wear a pointed hat. The other two were thinnish and looked enough alike to be brothers, or maybe cousins. The similarity was in the nose and the slant of the eyes.
The man behind the bar was not older, gray-haired or gnomelike. He was good-looking, tall and lean with wide shoulders in a snug gray Henley. She’d guess he was in his mid-thirties, just a few years older than she. He had a nice head of thick, dark hair that hung just a little too long. There was a bit of wave in that hair that looked as if it was begging for a woman’s fingers to straighten a few misbehaving strands. Adding to the mystery was a leather cord just barely peeking out from the collar of his shirt, and a leather cuff on his right wrist.
He was, in fact, quite nice to look at. Just what she needed.
No, just what she didn’t need! She had the worst tastes in men. Her romantic history was more tragedy than comedy, and in the past year she had not even dared to get involved with a man. After a lifetime of dealing with her own so-called gift, when it came to men she much preferred those who were unencumbered by magic. She didn’t even want them to believe that true magic existed. It would be easier that way. But what if she allowed herself to hook up with a serious boyfriend and had an episode in front of him? How would she explain it away?
“Can I help you?” the too-good-looking barkeep asked.
Considering the reception she’d gotten when she’d initially asked about Duncan, she decided not to go there just yet. She’d passed a lot of nothing on her way to Cloughban. If the bartender was no friendlier than Brigid, it would take her at least an hour to find her way to the next small town. And that was if she didn’t get turned around again.
“I’m starving. What do you recommend?”
“I recommend a very nice café in Killarney,” he said, his Irish accent not as pronounced as Brigid’s had been. And then he continued. “Are you lost, then?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“You’re American, and we are far off the beaten path. You won’t see a tour bus on the streets of Cloughban.”
No tour bus would be able to make it down the narrow, winding road she’d taken to get here, but that was beside the point.
She stepped to the bar and took a stool. No matter what, she was not going all the way to Killarney for lunch! This was a public place—a pub—and she was hungry. If the bartender tried to send her away, she’d plant her feet and insist on being served.
Well, it was never a good idea to piss off the people who were going to handle your food, but still...
“I’m looking for someone, but first I really want something to eat. A sandwich should be safe enough. Please,” she added as sweetly as she could manage.
He smiled at her, but the smile did not touch his dark eyes. Not Irish eyes, she knew in an instant. Not entirely. There was a bit of Romany in those eyes. Tinker, to those less kind. She shook off the empathic abilities that had been trying to come to the surface in the past several years. Dammit, she didn’t want them.
“Safe enough, I suppose,” the hunk and a half said in a voice of surrender. He didn’t try again to send her to Killarney. “Beer?”
“Tea,” she said. “Sugar, no milk.” She needed to be completely clearheaded for what was coming, judging by what she’d encountered so far.
* * *
Rye hadn’t known who the woman was, not when she’d first walked through the door, but it hadn’t taken long for his instincts to kick in and alert him to the trouble she was bringing his way. His instinctive reaction had been to suggest that she lunch far from his humble establishment. For all the good that was going to do. She was a stubborn one; he saw that right off.
She’d been well into the room before he’d realized more precisely who she was. What she was. Up close the eyes gave her away. Her brilliant green eyes and the voice that whispered in his head. Raintree princess.
Too bad. She was a pretty girl, petite and fair, with soft, pale blond hair cut to hang to her jawline. He didn’t normally care for short hair on a woman, but he had to admit, the neck revealed was nicely tempting. Long and pale and flawless. She had amazing eyes, a very nice ass and breasts high and firm and just the right size for his hand.
He’d feed her, but then she had to go. Killarney was likely not far enough away.
Doyle Mullen was working in the kitchen today, as he did six days a week. He cooked, swept and manned the bar when Rye had to step away for a few minutes. His was not a particularly demanding job, but it was one that had to be done. The pub menu was limited. The single laminated page offered ham and cheese sandwiches, chips, vegetable soup and brown bread. There was also fish and chips, but he could not in good conscience recommend them to anyone. Not even her.
After delivering the order to Doyle, Rye returned to the bar and made the tea himself. It gave him the opportunity to turn his back on the Raintree woman for a few minutes. Dammit, he could still feel her eyes on him.
She hadn’t said so, not yet, but she was here for him. He felt it as surely as he would feel rain on his face if he were to step outside. The question was, why? What did she want?
Even without the talismans he wore, Rye was not the most powerful psychic in the world, not by a long shot. He had learned as much or more as he’d been born with, learned at the knee of his Romany mother. Sometimes knowledge slammed into him and he knew it was truth. Other truths were muddy, or hidden from him entirely. He’d often thought it would be better to see nothing at all than to be given only the occasional glimpse. It would ease his frustration considerably.
He had other gifts, gifts he kept dampened, but his psychic ability had never been his strength. If he were honest, he’d admit it was often more annoying than helpful.
He delivered the Raintree woman’s tea, then went into the kitchen to check on her meal. It was not quite ready, so he waited there until it was. Doyle tried to make conversation but Rye was in no mood to participate. Eventually the cook went silent. No one else came into the pub; he knew without watching the door. No magic was involved in that knowledge. A bell sounded when the front door opened. Usually a shopkeeper or two stopped in for a bowl of stew or a sandwich about this time of day, but so far all was quiet. Because she was here.
They knew. Someone among them had realized who she was and the word had spread like wildfire. He wondered if the pretty girl realized that her family name had the power to strike fear into the