Love and Blarney by Zara Keane Page B

“Come on. Live a little. I promise I won’t tell anyone in Ballybeg that one of their own deigned to kiss the Blarney Stone.”
    “That thing is probably diseased.”
    “Coward.”
    “I am not.” He slid her a look and caught her grinning at him like the Cheshire cat. “Oh, all right. If you kiss the damn thing, I will, too. To be honest, the stone’s not my favorite part of the castle. It’s a great way to attract tourists, to be sure, but the legend’s a crock of shite in my opinion.”
    “What is your favorite part of the castle?”
    They’d left Ballybeg behind them now and were winding their way toward the N71. “Rock Close. It’s part of the grounds of Blarney Castle. The whole area’s gorgeous, but I particularly like the Blarney Dolmen.”
    Jayme flicked through her guidebook. “What’s that?”
    “A megalithic portal tomb. Great slabs of rock positioned in the shape of a door. The Celts built them all over the British Isles and beyond.”
    “It sounds magical.”
    She was magical. “It is.”
    “This is so exciting. I can’t wait to tell my friends I saw a real castle. And kissed the Blarney Stone!”
    Her enthusiasm was infectious. He recalled the same bouncing enthusiasm when they’d visited Mexico on their honeymoon. “Don’t get too excited,” he cautioned. “It’s really not all that.”
    “Oh, you’re only saying that because you’re Irish. You take such a national treasure for granted.”
    He chuckled. “The stone is rumored to be a fake, you know.”
    “Even if it is, it’s an historical fake.”
    “I don’t follow your logic, but okay. Let’s go see your historical fake.”
    She was examining her guidebook. “It says here the castle was built in 1446 by Dermot MacCarthy, King of Munster. Are you really descended from a king?”
    He gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah… me and everyone else around here named MacCarthy. Trust me, there are quite a few of us.”
    Jayme flipped to the map. “Where’s Munster? I don’t see it on the map.”
    “You’re in Munster. Historically, Ireland was divided into four provinces: Ulster in the north, Leinster to the east, Connacht to the west, and Munster to the southwest. For a time, the MacCarthy clan ruled Munster. The provinces still exist, but they have no political significance anymore.”
    “That’s fascinating. Despite what my mother would have you believe, our ancestors hardly came over on the Mayflower. My father’s family was English and my mother is a Swiss-Irish-Welsh hybrid. Neither of my parents have any interest in visiting Europe.” She shook her head. “I can’t understand why.”
    “They like sailing in hot climates,” Ruairí said. “For that sort of vacation, the Caribbean is far more suitable.”
    “Ruairí?” Her tone was hesitant.
    “Yeah?”
    “I owe you an apology.”
    He glanced at her, noting her suddenly serious visage. “What for?”
    “For not standing up for you when my parents were rude to you. I should have told them not to speak to you like that instead of making excuses for them and simply trying to keep you guys apart.”
    “It’s okay. Really.” He traced the grooves of her palm with his fingertips. “Frankly, I don’t care what they think of me. I only ever cared what you thought of me.”
    “But you stood up for me to your father.”
    He grimaced. “To be fair, your parents’ snide comments and icy disdain are a little easier to tolerate than my father’s obnoxious behavior. All I can say is that it’s not personal. He’s like that with everyone. He’s a deeply unhappy man who takes pleasure in bullying others.”
    She digested this a moment. “Was he in prison a lot?”
    “He did two spells when I was a kid. Five years for armed robbery and another three for assault and battery.”
    “Wow. He was away for eight years of your childhood?”
    “Yeah. I didn’t miss him. Those were the happiest years. After a time, I got to hoping he’d never come back. But he always