There is a stretch of shoreline along Ireland's rugged western coastline where earth and sea and wind and rock collide in an angry clash of grey colored wills. Like a Holland dike, the towering Cliffs of Moher hold back the battling sea even as the savage wind urges the waves to continue the battle. It is a wild, untamed land bursting with fury and animosity yet, at times, when the wind grows tired and the sea sleeps, tender and gentle as a lover's caress. Time has no meaning in this place for change is continuing and constant and recurring; what was yesterday will be today and tomorrow will be a repeat of yesterday. Some say the dead live here.

Cragmore Abbey, a 13th century castle fortress with three sides to the sea and one to land, is such an intregal part of the Cliffs that only the wind, relentlessly assaulting the impregnable grey stone, knew it was still there. It was here in the year of our lord 1633 that the Irish forged a last battle against their English tyrants. It is here, in the village of Dunagen, at the base of Cragmore Abbey, that the songs and stories of that long ago time have been handed down from one generation to the next with the supreme pride and arrogance that only the indomitable Irish can command. And it is here that the ghost of Lady Mary Margaret O’Neill lives on in the corners and shadows of the empty, forgotten rooms of Cragmore Abbey - unable to rest until her secret is revealed and her revenge is complete.

CHAPTER ONE

Cragmore Abbey, Co. Clare, Ireland,

in the year of our Lord, 1534

"Don't take the babe. Oh, Father, please. Don't take the babe away. Have ye no mercy?" With the last of her waning strength, Lady Mary Margaret O'Neill pushed herself to a half sitting position and stretched out her thin arms yearningly toward the small, shawl covered bundle in her father's arms. "Ye'll hurt yourself child," the midwife gently remonstrated, pressing her charge back down onto the bed. Mary’s arms remained raised in silent supplication. Her deep green eyes, red and swollen from incessant weeping, filled once more with the hot scalding tears of grief and anguish as she saw her words fall on uncaring ears. "Father, I beg ye," she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Is there no mercy in ye for your only daughter?"

"Ye're no daughter of mine, ye whore of Satan," Angus O'Neill, Lord Karney, spat back with pious contempt, his gray eyes cold and hostile as the North Sea that raged far below the high castle walls. "Ye've sinned gravely girl. Ye've rolled in the hay unbanned and unwed with the sorry likes of a McQuillan, and now ye must pay the price for such," his harsh, derisive words pressed Mary's slight frame back against the cold stone wall as surely as if his enormous arms had pinioned her. "This thing I hold is of the black devil himself, out of the limbs of the whore of the devil and I'll no have it in me house. I'll no have the devil's whore in me house either. Ye'll not bring the dark curses down on this family for yer blasphemous ways and loose morals. I'll no have the taint of your infidelities pollute this house and it's righteous, god-fearing name. I've spoken to his Holiness the Bishop on this matter. Those who are tempted of the devil shall die and be sent to the devil. " No More," Angus bellowed, as Mary's mouth opened to protest her innocence. "I'll hear no more from your damned lips!" He settled his raging eyes on the midwife. "Get out."

"But Milord, my lady needs care, clean bedclothes, food and water."

"She has need of nothing except to lie in her own filth and die for her sins. Get out or stay and die alongside her."

 With but one quick glance at the wretched young girl in the bloodied bed, the old woman scooped up her medical implements and scurried from the room lest Lord Karney change his mind.

"I pray the blessed saints will smile on this house again after ye're dead," Angus O'Neill said fervently as he turned and followed the midwife from the room slamming the massive wooden door tight behind him. The clang of the solid iron bolt falling into place reverberated against the stone walls of Mary's prison drowning out her anguished screams.

A few minutes later, far below the tower room where Mary lay dying, Lord Karney strode rapidly down the stone steps of his castle. He came to an abrupt halt in front of a young couple whose family had been tenant farmers on his land for a hundred years. "Here's the child," he snarled as he thrust the screaming infant into the arms of Maeve O'Donnelley. He threw a leather pouch heavy with money at Niall O'Donnelley's feet. "Take this screaming offspring of the devil and get ye out of Ireland. I never want to lay eyes on the two of you or that," he pointed to the squirming baby, "again."

Three days passed as Mary prayed for God to release her from her earthy bonds. No one came up the stone stairway from the house below. She was alone in her solitude and grief. The child was constantly in her fevered thoughts. She knew not whether it was male or female nor whether it lived or not. She only knew with a dreadful certainty that she would not see it again in this lifetime. On the eve of the third day she picked up her missal which was on the table next to the bed. Her breath was shallow and faint as she fought against unconsciousness.

"Give me just a wee bit more time, Lord," she prayed outloud reaching for ink and quill. Turning to her favorite passage she painstakingly filled in the blank spaces between sentences and along the sides of the pages with tiny wavering script. Pressing the book against her breast and crossing herself she began to recite the Lord's Prayer. "Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

CHAPTER TWO

San Francisco, California 1990

Brianna Ryan woke at her usual time of 7:00 a.m. with the same overwhelming sense of loss she had lived with since the police had told her the news. As she had done every morning since then she reluctantly yet consciously accepted the feeling as part of her changed circumstances with her normal resignation toward predicaments and emotions she had no power to change.

Throwing back the covers she reached for her robe and headed toward the shower.

 "You look terrible, Brat," Michael said an hour later as he rushed into the kitchen late as usual for his job on the Sentinel. He grabbed the orange juice from the fridge and gulped it right out of the bottle. "Morning sickness again?"

Brianna smiled at her older brother's use of the nickname he had given her when they were just children. It had been years since he had used it. She knew he was just trying to make her feel better. Like the white fib about his apartment being painted and his needing a place to stay for just a few days. He was hanging around to make sure she was going to be ok without Colin. Just like when they were children. He had always been there to protect her from scraped knees to over-ardent boys. It was comforting to fall back into their old childhood routine and let him play big brother. The house, their house, would have been too empty with just her.

 "No, I think I'm past that point." Brianna poured a cup of coffee and set down at the table. She pulled her long copper-red hair back with her hands and held it at the nape of her neck while she fished a rubber band from the pocket of her skirt. "Doctor Taylor says I can even have coffee again as long as I don't drink too much. I feel fine really. It's that stupid dream," she said, "I had it again last night. It was so real...as if I was really there. I was so frightened."

"You mean that one about the room you've never seen before and you can't get out of?"

"It's always the same. I'm alone in this room. It's almost completely dark. There's a light but I can't see where it's coming from. There's no windows or furniture or doors. Just emptiness. I'm standing in the center of the room dressed in a long white nightgown with   blood all over it. I can feel the cold grittiness of the stone floor on the soles of my bare feet. Then the walls start to move into the room. They get closer and closer until my arms are pinned against my body. I can't move.  It's hard to breath.   The walls start to move again and just before I'm certain I'll be crushed to death I wake up.

Michael put the orange juice bottle on the table and sat down opposite Brianna.

"You know, Brianna," he said, his voice full of concern, "Walter says that if you have the same dream over and over again that it must mean something. Like predestination or reincarnation or some such thing."

"Oh, Michael, I don't believe in that sort of thing. Walter can spout all the psychological jargon he wants to, that's what he does for a living, but I just think most of it is nonsense. Dreams are just that, dreams. They don't mean anything."

"I wouldn't be too sure. Why don't you make an appointment to go see him. I think he's pretty booked up but he'd get you in soon if I asked him."

"I don't think so, Michael. But thanks for caring." Brianna got up and carried her cup to the sink. Rinsing it out she placed it in the drain. "You know," she said quietly, staring out the window above the sink, "we really ought to go up and clean out the studio."

Michael came up behind her and put his arms around her. "You OK, Brat?"

"Yeah. It's just that I miss him so much. I don't feel whole anymore, like something is missing inside me that I know is gone forever. At least I'll have the baby," she said softly, patting her still trim waist.

Michael brushed the tears from Brianna's cheeks. "Remember, I'll be right here when the time comes."

"Right now, you better get to work. And I'm late."
 

CHAPTER THREE

Two hours later, dressed in a light gray wool suit with a lavender silk blouse. Brianna walked into the Langley Art Gallery that she managed for Peter Langley III.  She had taken two weeks off after the funeral but had finally realized that she had to get up and get on with her life.  Her career were very important to her.  The Langley Gallery was small but very prestigious and Brianna loved every minute she spent there. She was proud of the gallery's involvement with new as well as established artists. It was exciting to actively participate in an unknown artist's development from first showing to actual acceptance within the artistic community.

She had been offered the job seven years earlier while she was the assistant curator at the Seattle Art Museum. Sinclair Glenn, an artist she had become acquainted with at museum functions and even dated once or twice had told her the Langley Gallery in San Francisco was looking for a manager and he thought she would be perfect for the job. After debating for a week whether or not she wanted to move to California she wrote to Peter Langley, outlining her various credentials and experience. A week later she found herself sitting in his very pleasant office saying yes. She had never regretted the decision.

Every time Brianna entered the double glass doors of the gallery she remembered the first moment she had seen Colin. Colin was, had been, a particularly talented painter - an absolute genius with line and color and detail. His realistic landscapes invited you to crawl inside the frame and become part of the reality - to lie beside the quiet brook under the shady limbs of the old oak tree or stand by a magical waterfall and feel the wet spray on your sun-warmed face. To put it simply, Colin Dugal Ryan created beauty.

He had been standing in front of a new Arthur Stridell painting and shaking his head from side to side. Assuming he was a customer she had quickly handed her purse and coat to her assistant and gone to stand beside him.

"Quite remarkable isn't it," she had asked, clasping her hands together casually and smiling up at him. He was tall with raven black hair and piercing blue eyes that bored into hers angrily.

"It's garbage, he spat, turning back to the painting and waving his arm derisively. "What in hell is Sinclair trying to say this time?"

Brianna stared at the red, blue and yellow squiggles against the neon green background and pretended to seriously study the picture as she tried to decide how to reply without denigrating the artist's ability or putting the gallery in an awkward position. In actuality, when the painting had come in the day before she had asked Peter the same question.

"I'm not sure," she replied, deciding to be partially honest. "He does like to explore with vivid colors and angular shapes. It's difficult to say exactly what this painting is meant to represent. Maybe you could ask him yourself tomorrow night at the opening for this new collection."

"I never attend art openings, not even my own, unless I have to," Colin replied. "I hate the things. Always seems like such a damn waste of time being polite to champagne-sipping rich so-called art patrons who buy so they can impress their friends. None of them really gives a damn about the art or the artists. Now, if you'll excuse me I must get back to work." With a curt nod in her general direction he strode toward the door. Just as he was about to go through it he turned back. "You should wear you hair down."

"I see you've met Colin," Peter Langley said coming up behind Brianna and putting his arm languidly around her shoulders. "Painter extrodinaire. I like him enormously."

"He's quite rude. Who did you say he was?"

"Colin Ryan."

"Tell me about him."

"Nobody knows very much. Thirty-one or two, single, quite rich, very quiet, and extraordinarily talented. Not many friends. Rather a loner. Keeps to himself most of the time. Has an apartment in Westwood and a studio somewhere up the coast the location of which is probably the best kept secret I've ever come across. Don't think he's ever invited anyone there."

"Does he come in often?" Brianna tried but failed to keep her tone noncommittal.

"Do I detect a note of interest, dear Brianna?" he said teasingly.

"Just wondering that's all, Peter." For the rest of the day, even though she had found his behavior less than perfect, she found it impossible to get Colin O'Brien out of her thoughts.

The next day he had sent a single white carnation with a short note of apology for his rudeness and a request for her company at dinner the following Saturday.

She'd had dinner with him, dated him, moved in with him, and married him all within four months. They were wildly, deliriously in love. After a long lazy honeymoon in Europe capped by a short visit to Colin's family in Ireland they settled down in a renovated Victorian house overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, commuting back and forth to his cozy studio in Big Sur. Life was wonderful, rich with love and shared experiences. Three years later he died in a car accident coming back from the studio. It was the only time he had gone without her. She had just found out she was pregnant.

Brianna forced her thoughts back to the present as she put her coat and purse away and went to supervise the hanging of the paintings for the night's showing. She was sure her assistants could manage but it was her policy to check each and every one to make sure their placement on the walls would show them to their best advantage.

After she assured herself that everything was as it should be, she called the caterers, checked with the florists, ate a quick bite of lunch and then went over everything again just to make sure all was ready for the 200 invited guests.

At six o'clock she went home to get ready. She had to be back at eight. She found a note from Michael propped up on the kitchen table saying he'd see her at the showing. Good, she thought as she hurried upstairs to change her clothes for the evening. She showered quickly and slipped into a long black silk gown with just the right amount of sophistication for her role as hostess. She brushed her hair, remembering as always Colin's remark about wearing it down, and critically studied her reflection in the mirror. She ran her hands lightly down the length of her tall, slender body enjoying the feel of the soft material against her fingertips. The sensual silk draped gracefully over her small breasts and narrow hips showing her figure to its best advantage. Leaning forward to check her eye makeup she stared into her own emerald green eyes wondering as always if she looked like her real parents.

On her sixth birthday her mother had sat down with her and explained that they had adopted her as a baby. They knew nothing about her real parents – only that she had been abandoned shortly after her birth. The fact that she wasn’t their blood child had never bothered her. Their home had been full of love and she had never felt out of place or unwanted.

As a child she had hated the deep burnished red hair and pale skin that freckled whenever the sun came out. The kids at school had teased her constantly, calling her carrot top and 'Red' and frecklenose. It wasn't until she became an adult that she learned to appreciate the rare coloring that set her apart and made her noticeable even in a room crowded with more beautiful women.

She was just going out the door when the phone rang.

Glancing at her watch she decided to let the machine pick it up. She'd be late if she answered it.

Arriving home hours later, tired but exhilarated by the evening's success, she changed into her warm robe and decided to make a pot of cocoa while she waited for Michael to come in. Making enough for two she placed the pot, two flower-covered mugs and a plate of sugar cookies on a tray and carried it into the library. While setting the tray on the table next to her favorite chair she noticed the red light blinking on the message machine. She poked the button and sat down. A familiar voice came over the line.

"Brianna, this is Zaira. Just wanted to say hello. Nothing important. Our Jamie sends his love...mother too."

Brianna smiled remembering the sunny warmth of Colin's youngest sister when she and Colin had visited Ireland and the family home during their honeymoon. In just eight short days she had come to love the blue-eyed, black haired beauty that was the spoiled favorite of the entire family. Glancing at the clock she realized that she would have to wait a few hours before calling due to the time difference.

She heard the front door open. "In here, Michael."

"Cocoa. I smell cocoa. You darling. Just what the doctor ordered. God, but it's cold out there." Michael held out his hands in front of the fire. "Bet it snows tonight."

"Maybe we'll have a white Christmas," Brianna said as she poured a cup of the warm, sweet chocolate and handed it to her brother.

They sat in companionable silence for several long moments sipping their cocoa and enjoying the warm peace of the firelit room.

"The showing went well," Michael said.

"Yes, I think so. We sold over half of the paintings. Janine was so excited she kept hopping from one room to another trying to see who was purchasing her work."

"She's a cute girl. Married?"

"Interested, Michael?" Brianna was only half teasing. It was her dearest wish that Michael would find some nice girl to settle down with. He'd had lots of girlfriends but no serious ones and now that he was approaching his thirty-first birthday she had almost given up all hope of becoming an aunt.

"Maybe. She's different. Quiet, intelligent, sure of herself. Tired of all the jaded beauties with nothing between their ears I guess. Janine's...well...different. I like her."

Trying to appear nonchalant, Brianna took another sip of her cocoa and held the cup between her two hands in front of her. "I could ask her to dinner."

"Really? That'd be great." Jumping up Michael kissed his sister on the cheek. "Well, I'm off to bed. Leave this stuff," he indicated the pot and cups. "I'll get it in the morning."
 

CHAPTER FOUR

"Zaira, it's Brianna."

"Brianna. I'm so glad you called back. First, tell me how you are, then tell me ye'll be comin' for a visit. We're all dyin' to see you."

"I'm fine, really I am." No need to tell Colin's sister of the deep longings and constant loneliness across the thousands of miles of telephone cable. "What's this about a visit? I'm not sure I can get away right now."

"You have to or you'll be having the first Ryan baby born outside Ireland. Ma says you just have to have it here. Can you find a way to come then?"

Brianna smiled into the receiver. The passion of Zaira's voice touched the cold spot in her inner soul. She remembered the strength and sharing of Colin's family and suddenly decided that there was no place else on earth she would rather be when it was time for the baby to be born. "You've convinced me," she laughed, infected by Zaira's zeal. "I'll come. I'll let you know when. There's things at the Gallery to clear up and, of course, I'll have to talk to Peter about an extended leave, but, yes, oh, yes, I'll come."

"This couldn't have come at a more fortuitous time," Peter Langley said after he heard Brianna's wishes to have the baby born in Ireland. "It creates a solution to a dilemma I've been mulling over for some time now. As you know, we have many fine Irish artists who ship their work to us on a regular basis and I’ve been toying with the idea of opening a gallery in Ireland to display their art in it's own environment. I was thinking of going over there myself and scouting properties but now I won't have to...you can do it. That is if you are willing to and think you'll have the time."

"What a wonderful idea, Peter! I'd love to and then I wouldn't feel so guilty about leaving you short handed. What kind of property were you thinking about? Maybe a small, simple shop in Dublin?"

     "You're going to think I'm crazy but I thought about something a bit different than a small shop...maybe an old house, perhaps a small castle?"

"You're right," Brianna said, smiling, shaking her head at her boss, "you are slightly bonkers, but I think it's a great idea."

"When do you think you could leave?" Peter came around his desk and placed his arm around Brianna's shoulders as he walked her to the door.

"I should wait until after the holidays.  Then I'll clear up things here, brief Mrs. Chappel on the upcoming showings and close up the house. I’ll need to clean out the studio too." Brianna fought back the tears that instantly welled up in her eyes at the thought of the emptying out the studio which would never again know the sound of Colin's footsteps nor the smell of fresh paint and turpentine.

"Just remember, Brianna," Peter said squeezing her shoulders, "I'm always here to help. I loved him too you know. He was a very special person."

Brianna brushed the few escaping tears from her cheeks. "I know, Peter, and I appreciate your concern. I'll be fine, really. It would help if you could store some of his things here while I’m gone"

"No problem."

"You've been a good employer and a good friend, Peter," Brianna said giving him a grateful hug. "If it's all right with you, I'll think I'll try to leave in about three weeks. I'm really excited about your idea of a gallery in Ireland. I know I can find just the right property for you."

"Brianna, I don't want you to just find the property. If you are willing, I would like you to set up the gallery and run it. You have such a wonderful rapport with artists - and you look so Irish with all that red hair - they just might let down their indomitable guard to trust you with their work."

Stunned, Brianna could only stare at her boss for a minute. How wonderful it would be to stay in Ireland indefinitely, to start a gallery there and have complete control over; to raise her child, Colin's child, in the midst of that wonderfully loving family that had embraced her with so much love from the very first moment of meeting. "That's a very tempting offer, Peter."

"Then say yes."

"Ok, then, Yes."

CHAPTER FIVE

Brianna stared through the rain splattered windshield at the isolated cabin. Even at this distance it had a deserted, abandoned look about it. She had not been back since before Colin’s death – since they had lain together on the brightly colored pillows before the fire and made a baby. How could she possibly accomplish the task she had come here to do? Maybe she should just leave everything and give Peter instructions to clean it out after she was gone.

Coward, she chided herself. Waiting through a few more minutes of indecision she finally threw her coat over her head and raced across the yard to the shelter of the front porch. Hesitating only a fraction of a second she put the key in the lock and turned the knob. The heavy wooden door swung open silently as if the hinges had been oiled that morning. The familiar odors of turpentine and paint assaulted her senses evoking memories she was not ready to deal with. The room reeked of Colin’s presence for it was here that he had truly lived and breathed. Here within these rough wooden walls he had contemplated his very existence and from deep within his being had brought forth images of beauty and passion and longing that  had been captured on his canvases for the entire world to enjoy. Here he had shared with her the true depth of his soul as he had never shared with another human being.

Tears slid quietly down Brianna’s cheeks as she shivered against the damp cold ache that filled her heart with sadness tinged with anger. "It’s not fair," she protested out loud to the unfinished paintings that were piled against the far wall. "It’s not fair! I didn’t have him long enough!" She sank to the floor as the sobs she had held back for so long broke through her restraint and burst forth against the injustice of her loss.

The next morning Brianna woke with the sun. Her eyes were swollen from crying half the night but her heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. She spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon packing up and labeling boxes so that Peter would know what to save and what to give or throw away. Finally, exhausted and hungry, she looked around the dismantled room. Whispering a peaceful good-bye Brianna closed the door upon that chapter of her life. She knew that she would never enter the cabin again.
 

CHAPTER SIX

Ireland 1991

As Brianna stepped out of the plane into the clear crisp sunlight of Shannon Airport she searched the crowd for signs of a familiar face. It wasn't hard to spot Zaira. The tiny, black-haired powerhouse was standing on the left fringe of the crowd jumping up and down and frantically waving with both arms above her head as she tried to get Brianna's attention. Waving back, Brianna waited her turn to descend the steps.

The moment her feet touched pavement she was engulfed by two arms that should have belonged to a Suma wrestler.

"Ah...Brianna...ye're here...at last. I thought this day would never come. Ma said to be patient but you know me...so keen on seein' you I was that I haven't sat still for a week. And now you're here. Bless the saints above for bringing you back to us."

Brianna laughed happily as she hugged her sister-in-law back. "And who's this?" she asked, spotting the small boy standing quietly at Zaira's side.

"Where are my manners? Pa would say I left them in the heather up on the hill behind the house if he were here. This is our Jamie, my oldest. We named him after his Uncle Jamie.  Don't you recollect him - though probably not he was such a wee one when you and Colin were here. Jamie, say hello to your Aunt Brianna."

"Hello to you, Aunt Brianna," Jamie obeyed in a small, timid voice, staring at the ground and scuffing one foot on the cement. "Pleased to meet ya.

"He's grown so Zaira. You know, Jamie, I held you on my lap when you were just a tiny little baby."

"He's four now, and strong as an ox. Smart too. Can recite his alphabet and count all the way to 100. Pa says he'll make a fine solicitor some day. Come on, let's get your luggage. The car's out front and ma will skin me alive if I don't get you home for the festivities before all the food is eaten." Pulling Brianna with one hand and Jamie with the other, Zaira led the way into the airport building, badgered the porter into taking the luggage all the way to her ancient Ford station wagon by telling him she'd let his mother know he was slacking his duties if he didn't. Within minutes Brianna found herself holding onto the seat belt for dear life as Colin's delightfully impetuous sister swerved around cars and people, honking continuously until they cleared the airport. Soon they were racing down the road headed North to the farmhouse just outside of Ennis that had been in the Ryan family for generations.

"How is Jamie?"  Brianna asked after a few miles. 

"Ah, now, that's a good question.  Physically, he's well enough.  His legs have healed nicely and he walks quite well though he has the help of a cane to do so.  But his spirit is damp.  Ma says the fairies have taken his soul."

"Did they ever catch the person who shot him?"

"No and no one has come forward to say they did it either. On the one hand it was a blessing.    If he had stayed home that night and not gone to support the IRA rally he wouldn't have been shot and he would still be in the thick of things.   Now Jamie stays close to home and helps around the farm as best he can.   His friends visit now and again and tell him how the cause goes but it's not the same for him.   The other day Sean Green, he bein' the local leader of the IRA, came by and said there was talk of a peace conference and some sort of a cease fire but we'll see won't we.  There's been talk before and that's all its ever been.  Just talk.  Thank the Holy Mother we don't live up there in the midst of it all," she finished, crossing herself quickly.  "Enough of morbid talk!  Ma will skin me alive if I get you to her all upset and melancholy.  She' got a feast planned for sure with dancin' and all.  Don't tell her I told you though!"

"Not a word will I say to spoil her surprise," Brianna reassured her sister-in-law quickly.

"And how is that handsome brother of yours?"  Zaira asked with a merry twinkle in her eyes.