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underwear. ‘But me father thought you'd be liking some hot water to wash up with.’ Patrick blushed even more when he realised the girl was staring unashamedly at his groin. ‘Thank you, Miss …?’
    ‘Miss Maureen Riley,’ she replied as she set the bowl down on the bed. ‘Bernard Riley would be me father.’
    ‘Thank your father for me then, Miss Riley, for the hot water.’
    ‘To be sure it was a pleasure , Captain Duffy, to bring the water to your room,’ she said provocatively. ‘And if there'd be anything else I … my father can do for you, it would be a pleasure.’
    Patrick smiled at the young girl's open manner that verged on brazen. She was not beautiful, but pretty, in her plump and healthy appearance: flawless skin with a touch of red in her cheeks and raven hair tied back in a bun. Buxom but with a slim waist over broad hips.
    Patrick had no illusions as to what she meant by pleasure. Here, in his room, stood the contradiction to the stifling mores of the Irish church. ‘I will certainly keep your offer in mind, Miss Riley’ he said with a twinkle in his eye that would have been accepted by the young publican's daughter as serious flirting. Miss Riley was unaware of her own sensuality, however, and most likely would not have known what to do if Patrick had pressed the offer.
    ‘You'd be going to visit George Fitzgerald with Father O'Brien today?’ Maureen said, more as a statement than a question as she glanced curiously around the spartan but clean room.
    ‘And at what time would that be?’ Patrick countered facetiously.
    ‘I don't know that,’ she replied innocently, missing his gentle sarcasm. ‘But I suppose that would be after midday as Father O'Brien has things to do until then.’
    ‘Well then, I suppose I should get on with ensuring I'm ready to go with him after midday,’ Patrick said as a hint for her to leave.
    Although Maureen was forward she was not obtuse and she gave him a parting smile as she turned with an inviting swirl of her dress to leave the room.
    As priest and soldier strolled along the country lane to George Fitzgerald's house Patrick was beginning to feel ill at ease with the idea of visiting his paternal grandmother's brother.
    He knew the story of the elopement of his grandmother with his grandfather and how her father had threatened to kill the Papist upstart who had taken his beautiful daughter from his hearth. Such threats were taken seriously in a clannish land where memories of grudges never died.
    The brisk walk was helping to clear his head and the summer's day was spectacular. The two men were an incongruous pair: the tall, broad-shouldered Patrick Duffy and the smaller priest who hurried to keep up with his long, measured, soldier's stride.
    They came adjacent to the small dome-shaped, tree-covered mound Patrick had first viewed from the window of his hotel room. ‘The hill? It doesn't look as if it belongs here,’ he commented.
    Eamon stopped to stare up at it. In the distance beyond the hill lay the unusually placid but cold Atlantic ocean. ‘I think it was man-made. Possibly a burial mound for a great king,’ he said as a tiny breeze caused his black cassock to flap around his legs. ‘I think it even predates the Bronze Age. Mister Fitzgerald and I have often discussed an exploratory dig on it.’
    Patrick did not see the figure until it moved. He shaded his eyes against the unfamiliar glare of the summer's sun low on the horizon. It was mid-afternoon and, without the cloud covering to keep in the heat of die day, die coming night promised to be crisp and clear. His training as a soldier in observing distant movement stood him well and he was able to focus on the figure. It was distinctly female. Even from die distance he could see the long auburn tresses flowing around her shoulders. On either side of her stood two huge shaggy grey hounds.
    ‘It looks as if there is someone on the hill watching us Eamon,’ Patrick observed casually.
    ‘Has