turned, setting the mixture on the table. Brennan pushed at it with his finger. “You want me to drink that?”
“No,” Tara shook her head. “I want you to rub a few drops on your hands and your knees whenever it starts to hurt.”
“What’s it going to do to me?”
“It’ll make you feel better.”
Brennan lifted the mug, tipped it so he could see inside the mixture.
“It’s just herbs,” Tara assured him.
“Hmmph,” Brennan grunted and set it back on the table.
“Will you give it a try for one week and let me know if it makes a difference?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“It would mean a lot to me.”
“Why do you care, anyway?”
“I don’t like to see anyone suffer.”
“And I don’t like foreigners pushing their ways on me.”
“I understand that—respect that, even. But I promise all I want is to help you.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“From who?”
“From another woman. Just like yourself.”
“What did she do?” Tara asked, slowly.
“Asked if I’d rent my spare cottage out to a friend of hers—her brother actually. Said he would pay for the place, fix it up even.”
“And did he?”
“Aye. He did.”
“Then… what was the problem?”
Brennan sat back, studied Tara across the room. “I think I’ll leave the answering of that question to Dominic.”
***
Dominic walked into the kitchen of the pub, glancing around, surprised. “Where’s Tara?”
“I’m not sure,” Caitlin said, slipping an apron over her head. “I expected her to be here by now.”
Dominic frowned. “Shift starts in less than an hour.”
“Give her a break, Dom. She was here until after midnight last night.”
Reaching under the sink, he grabbed his toolbox. “I’m going up to Brennan’s to finish what I started yesterday. I should be back by the time we open, but can you cover the front for me if I’m not?”
Caitlin nodded. “If you run into Tara, don’t be too hard on her. She probably just overslept.”
“We’ll see,” Dom muttered, ducking out the door. The scent of roses, sickeningly sweet, slammed into him. “Jesus,” he breathed, covering his mouth with his shirt. “What the hell is that?” The ground started to spin and he leaned a palm against the wall of the pub. Glancing up and down the empty street to see if anyone else noticed the strange smell, he realized he was alone. He removed his shirt from his mouth and shook his head, trying to clear it.
He was imagining things, he told himself as he began to walk. He hadn’t slept well since Tara arrived on the island and it was starting to catch up with him. Fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder at her cottage, he lengthened his stride. But the scent of the roses grew stronger the closer he got to Brennan’s. And by the time he knocked on the farmer’s door, he was having trouble breathing.
He dropped his toolbox, scrubbing his hands over his face as the door swung open and he glanced up, blinking when he saw Tara. He stared at her for several long moments, trying to figure out if she was a vision or for real. Her eyes—the color of Corrigan moss—regarded him warily. But his own gaze drifted down to her unpainted mouth, lingered there, his fingers itching to loosen the tie that bound her hair back, to see that velvety curtain of black dance around her chin. His hand felt heavy and strange as he lifted it, picking a sprig of rosemary from her hair.
When she went very still, he drew his hand back.
“Dominic, is that you?” Brennan’s gravelly voice boomed through the tiny cottage.
“Yes.” Dominic straightened, forcing the stone from his throat. He glanced past Tara to the kitchen, at the steam rising up from the pot on the stove. Shifting his gaze back to Tara’s guilty face, his eyes narrowed. “I thought I told you not to come here without me.”
“You did.”
“Then what are you doing
“No,” Tara shook her head. “I want you to rub a few drops on your hands and your knees whenever it starts to hurt.”
“What’s it going to do to me?”
“It’ll make you feel better.”
Brennan lifted the mug, tipped it so he could see inside the mixture.
“It’s just herbs,” Tara assured him.
“Hmmph,” Brennan grunted and set it back on the table.
“Will you give it a try for one week and let me know if it makes a difference?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“It would mean a lot to me.”
“Why do you care, anyway?”
“I don’t like to see anyone suffer.”
“And I don’t like foreigners pushing their ways on me.”
“I understand that—respect that, even. But I promise all I want is to help you.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“From who?”
“From another woman. Just like yourself.”
“What did she do?” Tara asked, slowly.
“Asked if I’d rent my spare cottage out to a friend of hers—her brother actually. Said he would pay for the place, fix it up even.”
“And did he?”
“Aye. He did.”
“Then… what was the problem?”
Brennan sat back, studied Tara across the room. “I think I’ll leave the answering of that question to Dominic.”
***
Dominic walked into the kitchen of the pub, glancing around, surprised. “Where’s Tara?”
“I’m not sure,” Caitlin said, slipping an apron over her head. “I expected her to be here by now.”
Dominic frowned. “Shift starts in less than an hour.”
“Give her a break, Dom. She was here until after midnight last night.”
Reaching under the sink, he grabbed his toolbox. “I’m going up to Brennan’s to finish what I started yesterday. I should be back by the time we open, but can you cover the front for me if I’m not?”
Caitlin nodded. “If you run into Tara, don’t be too hard on her. She probably just overslept.”
“We’ll see,” Dom muttered, ducking out the door. The scent of roses, sickeningly sweet, slammed into him. “Jesus,” he breathed, covering his mouth with his shirt. “What the hell is that?” The ground started to spin and he leaned a palm against the wall of the pub. Glancing up and down the empty street to see if anyone else noticed the strange smell, he realized he was alone. He removed his shirt from his mouth and shook his head, trying to clear it.
He was imagining things, he told himself as he began to walk. He hadn’t slept well since Tara arrived on the island and it was starting to catch up with him. Fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder at her cottage, he lengthened his stride. But the scent of the roses grew stronger the closer he got to Brennan’s. And by the time he knocked on the farmer’s door, he was having trouble breathing.
He dropped his toolbox, scrubbing his hands over his face as the door swung open and he glanced up, blinking when he saw Tara. He stared at her for several long moments, trying to figure out if she was a vision or for real. Her eyes—the color of Corrigan moss—regarded him warily. But his own gaze drifted down to her unpainted mouth, lingered there, his fingers itching to loosen the tie that bound her hair back, to see that velvety curtain of black dance around her chin. His hand felt heavy and strange as he lifted it, picking a sprig of rosemary from her hair.
When she went very still, he drew his hand back.
“Dominic, is that you?” Brennan’s gravelly voice boomed through the tiny cottage.
“Yes.” Dominic straightened, forcing the stone from his throat. He glanced past Tara to the kitchen, at the steam rising up from the pot on the stove. Shifting his gaze back to Tara’s guilty face, his eyes narrowed. “I thought I told you not to come here without me.”
“You did.”
“Then what are you doing
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