“There are no winners,” Cullen declared firmly. “To be Irish is to understand that the joy of a debate is not in the winning or losing, but in the argument itself.”
“Ah. So that’s where this comes from. My father used to accuse me of enjoying a good argument way too much. Now I learn that it’s the Irish in me.”
Cullen was still smiling, but his look had sharpened, and she had the distinct impression that he was searching for parts of himself in her face. Wasn’t she guilty of doing the same, when she thought he wouldn’t notice?
Ross was watching them both, and keeping his thoughts to himself.
“What else do you enjoy, my dear?” Cullen sipped his iced tea and continued to study her.
“Good books.”
“Fiction or non?”
Without a thought, she said, “Nonfiction. Usually. I devour biographies.”
He and Ross shared a glance. “And what is your taste in music?”
“I love it all, I suppose. But especially classical. Operas in particular.”
He arched a brow. “Do you have a favorite?”
“I love all I’ve seen. But I always cry at Madame Butterfly.”
He smiled at that. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I never had lessons, so I don’t play well, but I play piano for my own amusement. And I’ve been known to pick up a violin and play a tune or two.”
“Any other great loves?” He paused. Smiled. “I should clarify that. Any you can speak of?”
She laughed, enjoying the teasing. “No special man, if that’s what you’re asking. But I do love to garden. That’s something that my mother and I both shared.”
He leaned forward. “Your mother was aptly named. Her namesake, my mother, had a garden that was admired by all in our county. I swear she could put a dead stick in the ground and it would bloom for her.”
He saw Aidan’s smile fade. “Forgive me, my dear. I don’t mean to push. It’s just…” He spread his hands. “When I hear you speak, it’s as though I’ve known you for a lifetime. I forget that this is all new and awkward for you.”
She surprised herself by reaching over to take his hand. “You’re a kind man, Cullen Glin, and I don’t want to hurt you any more than you’ve already been hurt. I admit that I’m puzzled by all the similarities between my family and the one you’ve been seeking. But I can’t put aside my beliefs of a lifetime because of a few coincidences.”
Keeping her hand in his, he drained his glass and got to his feet. “You’re right, of course. Forgive an old man’s impatience. We’ll have our answers soon enough. Why don’t we walk up to the lodge and see what Kathleen has prepared for our dinner?”
He turned to Ross. “Will you be joining us?”
Ross gave a quick shake of his head. “Not tonight. I have some work to take care of.”
“You can do that later. Come. Join us.”
Ross gave the old man a gentle smile. “I suspect that you and Aidan can find plenty to talk about. Maybe I’ll walk up later for coffee.”
“Your loss.” Cullen tucked Aidan’s hand in the crook of his arm. “On the way to the lodge I’ll show you my favorite roses. Moira and I once planned to fill our yard with them.”
Ross watched them walk away, then settled back down in the chair, idly scratching behind Mayo’s ears, until Meath nudged her aside. “Jealous, are you?” He glanced toward the old man and young woman, walking along the path arm in arm. “I’d know a thing or two about that.”
Six
“Bridget.” Cullen sat back as the old woman removed his plate. “Be sure and tell Kathleen that this was the finest salmon I’ve ever tasted.” He glanced at Aidan. “What did you think of it, my dear?”
“I agree.” She sighed. “And those tiny potatoes and carrots right out of the garden. You’d spend a fortune for something that fresh in a restaurant.”
Once again they’d forsaken the banquet-sized table in favor of a small round one set in a corner of the room near a bank of windows overlooking the gardens. For the past hour they’d talked about books and music, discovering that each of them loved the same authors, and they even described the same scenes from several of their favorite operas.
While Cullen seemed to revel in each new discovery, for Aidan it was an eerie feeling to have such an intimate connection to a stranger. Except that the more time she spent with Cullen Glin, the less a stranger he seemed to be.
“Why don’t we take our coffee and dessert in the library?”
She nodded. “But just coffee. I’m afraid I don’t have room for dessert after that wonderful meal.”
He turned to Bridget with a smile. “Just coffee, Bridget. We’ll be in the library.”
Once there, Cullen watched as Aidan studied the photographs arranged on a side table.
“Your mother?” She pointed to the plump woman with her arm around a young Cullen.
“Yes.” He walked over to stand beside her. “You’d have loved her.”
Aidan heard the affection in his voice.
“Is this Ross?” She lifted a framed photo for a better look.
“Indeed. That was taken when he first came to live with me.”
“So young?” She glanced up in surprise. “I mean… I thought he was merely your lawyer.”
“He is. Considered one of the finest in the country now. After university here he studied at Oxford, and then in your country, at Harvard.”
She peered at the photograph. “But here he’s…”
“Sixteen.” Cullen chuckled. “You’d be hard-pressed to discern that rough-and-tumble youth as the same polished man who’s persuaded judges and juries across Ireland in his clients’ favor.”
They both looked up as Bridget carried in a silver coffee service and filled two cups before taking her leave.
Aidan and Cullen settled into chairs pulled in front of the fire.
Cullen stirred sugar into his coffee. “What do you think of Ross?”
Aidan shrugged, wishing she could evade the question. “He’s charming and smart and funny. And, without question, devoted to you.”
Cullen nodded absently. “No more than I am to him.”
“And yet you’re not related?”
He glanced up. “Not in any legal sense. But without Ross Delaney, I doubt I’d be sitting here.”
“What does that mean?”
“Many years ago, Ross saved my life. I was in Dublin on business, and met an old friend at a pub. We drank a bit too much, and when I left, I made a wrong turn and found myself in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I was a perfect target for punks, and a couple of them attacked me.” He shook his head. “I fancied myself a pretty good fighter, but I was no match for those street toughs. I was having my hide kicked when suddenly one punk fell, another let out a cry and the lot of them ran screeching like banshees into the night.”
“Ross?”
He nodded. “He came out of nowhere and fought them off like a man possessed. I was bloody from head to toe, and this wiry lad, who looked as though he couldn’t lift a sack of potatoes, carried me to my hotel, hauled me to my room and cleaned me up before putting me to bed and phoning for a house doctor.” He frowned, remembering. “In the morning I was alone. I walked that same street, giving his description to everyone I could find. Nobody claimed to know who the lad was. But finally a girl who plied her trade on the streets said it had to be Ross Delaney. She showed me where he stayed most nights, and sure enough, there he was, asleep in the doorway of an abandoned factory, my blood still on his clothes.”
“He was sleeping on the streets?”
“He was, yes.”
She thought about what Ross had told her. His mother had left before he could talk. “Where was his family? Who raised him?”
“From what I learned, he pretty much raised himself. He lived with his father until around the age of eight, when, after being beaten nearly senseless in a drunken rage, Ross left.”