Read The Irish Bride for Free Online Page B

blarney?”
Danny Leary was known to exaggerate from time to time, all in the
interest of making a story “a wee more entertaining.”
    “ Aye, I believe it. He’s not
the only one who’s written back telling of food and work. Some have
even sent a little money for their families.” He fingered the
frayed edge of his coat sleeve. “I don’t think the streets are
paved with gold, as some have said. But it’s a land of plenty over
there.”
    And Aidan O’Rourke was determined to
get a share.
    * * *
    Full night had fallen by the time
Stephen Riley dropped Aidan and Farrell at The Rose and Anchor, a
dockside pub on the River Lee in Cork City. With a nervous flutter
in her chest, Farrell watched the wagon recede into the night. The
warm, yeasty smell of ale wafted from the brightly lit pub. Behind
them the river gave off a sharp tang, of smells she preferred not
to identify, yet curiously, of fresh, water-borne breezes
too.
    She glanced back at the water. As it
lapped against the quays, the coy moon, half hidden by silver-edged
clouds, reflected on its rippling surface like a wavering light on
spilled ink.
    Aidan’s eyes were dark with shadow and
caution as he glanced at their surroundings. Although he was a
farmer unaccustomed to the perils of a port city, he plainly
recognized that they were in a rough section of town.
    The side streets were coal-black and
sinister, and Farrell felt as if unseen eyes watched them from the
alleys. Apparently Aidan sensed it too. He gripped her elbow in his
strong hand and nudged her toward the pub door. “Come on. Let’s get
something to eat and find lodgings for the night.”
    Inside, the smoky room was
surprisingly lively, filled with fierce-looking seamen from London
and Liverpool and Hamburg. In the corner, a hungry-looking man
played a feeble jig on a tin whistle, accompanied by another
scarecrow who beat a bodhrán. The skin of its drumhead was old and
worn to translucency. A few coins lay in a cap at their feet,
apparently tossed there by their mostly inattentive
audience.
    Aidan stood in the doorway surveying
the place while the pub’s tough patrons eyed them.
    “ If ye’re lookin’ for a
handout, ye’ve opened the wrong door!” a short, gray-headed hag
barked at them from behind the counter. “This inn serves only
payin’ customers, ’less ye can earn your supper” —she jerked her
chin at the musicians— “which I doubt. And I don’t have any kitchen
scraps for the likes of you .” The bannalanna was as round as she was
high, with tiny, wide-set porcine eyes, and massive, flabby arms
that were work-reddened from fingertips to elbows. Her nose was
just as red.
    The men standing nearby laughed, and
Farrell felt Aidan stiffen.
    “ That’s tellin’m, Katie, old
lass,” one the sailors said, looking up from his ale pot with a dry
expression. He had a long, oiled braid that hung between his
shoulder blades. “Never let it be said ye gave a crust of bread to
charity.”
    Indignant, Kate put her red
fists on the rolls of flesh that spilled over her hips. “And where
would I be if I started givin’ out free meals? Out of business,
that’s where. The beggars would be all over this place like flies
on a dead dog. Phaw! ”
    More laughter ensued, and then the
onlookers trailed off to silence, eager to see what would happen
next.
    Farrell hadn’t stopped to think how
she and Aidan looked. Certainly they’d never been well off, but
she’d grown accustomed to their appearance—everyone in Skibbereen
looked the same or worse. Her skirt was carefully mended, but its
hem was as tattered as a rag left to blow in the wind. Aidan had a
dark stubble of beard on his cut, bruised face, and he looked as
worn as his clothes. In all, she supposed they appeared thoroughly
disreputable. At least they weren’t barefoot, as many were in
Ireland.
    Aidan took Farrell’s hand and pulled
her with him to the bar. The insults hummed through him like an
electric current which she felt