“She is. Mary of the Gael, she’s called. She’s a patron of the arts, children of unmarried parents, blacksmiths, dairy workers—and Ireland. She was one of the original Irish Celtic Christian saints, a bit younger than Saint Patrick.”
“Some say she’s a Christian version of the pagan goddess Brigid.”
“Does that matter to you?”
“Not at all. The goddess Brigid and Saint Brigid share some of the same traits and concerns—hospitality, healing, abundance, fertility, the arts. Saint Brigid founded an abbey in Kildare—Cill Dara, which means the cell of the oak. It became an important center of learning. Her story still resonates with people over a thousand years after her death.”
Colin went ahead of Emma onto a path that curved up a hill, under a natural arch formed by more huge rhododendrons. “She’s said to have turned water to ale. My kind of saint.”
“Brigid is revered for her sense of hospitality.”
“A pint of ale would do it. She’s often depicted with a cow, since legend says she grew up on a dairy farm.” Colin grinned. “See? I’ve done my homework.”
They emerged from the rhododendron tunnel. Emma felt the soft ground under her feet. “I turned the Sisters of the Joyful Heart into something they weren’t. Something I wasn’t. Yank says my entering the convent was a whim.”
Colin started down a steep, short hill ahead of her, then turned and looked up at her, a flicker of amusement in his gray eyes. “That’s what he says to you. He tells me it was about guys.”
She sighed and descended the hill. “It wasn’t about guys.”
“You realized there’d never be a rugged lobsterman in your life.”
She rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t about men, lobstermen or otherwise.”
She plunged past Colin onto a narrow footpath that wound through tall marsh grass to the water. He followed her, saying nothing. Finally she spun around at him. “I became a postulant at nineteen. I didn’t actually start living at the convent until I took the next step and became a novice. I truly felt I had a calling, but I don’t know if I would have if it hadn’t been for the particular convent that was close to me when I was growing up.”
“The Sisters of the Joyful Heart and their art connection,” Colin said, no hint of teasing now. “The fact that they’re into art and you Sharpes are prominent art detectives isn’t a coincidence. Your grandfather’s friendship with Mother Linden was already well established when you were born. The order she founded was a natural refuge for you.”
“That’s what was wrong. It was a refuge, and it shouldn’t have been. Sister Joan saw that sooner than anyone else. Sooner than I did, for sure.”
“Could Sister Joan have known about Claire Grayson and her painting of Saint Sunniva?”
“I don’t see how. Mother Natalie might know—she was a novice forty years ago when Claire was taking painting lessons from Mother Linden. Sister Joan was younger. We don’t know for certain it’s the same painting Sister Cecilia described, although I can’t imagine it’s not.”
Colin walked out to the end of the path, almost into the water. Emma noticed the shape of his shoulders and hips and warned herself not to get caught up in fantasies about him. Finian Bracken was right. Colin stood apart from his family and friends. He even stood apart from the FBI.
He glanced back at her. “So is the snappy wardrobe because you were a nun? Are you going against type?”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“The leather jacket, the boots, the cute sweater—”
“Functional,” she said.
He gave her a sexy smile. “They look good to me.”
It was late in the day after little sleep—never mind the rest of what was going on—and she wasn’t getting sucked in by an undercover agent at a loose end. She’d resolved not to on the drive across Ireland that afternoon.
Emma retraced her steps back through the tall grass. She was five yards into the trees on the main path when Colin caught up with her.
“Have you seen your friend Father Bracken?” she asked.
“I just left him in the cemetery.” Colin gave a shudder that was clearly fake. “Damn, that place got to me.”
“He’s not going to stand on the sidelines.”
“I told him to.”
“He didn’t tell you about his family, did he?”
“No reason to.” Colin jumped lightly over an exposed tree root. “I wouldn’t read anything into it, Emma. Some of us are simple. You’re the one with all the layers.”
“I don’t think you’re that simple. You’re natural. Confident. You trust yourself.” She squinted through the trees, noticing a young couple walking—or being walked by—a rambling basset hound. She smiled, looked again at the man next to her. “Your brothers think you’re a desk jockey FBI agent. At least, they pretend to. I actually am a desk agent. I like my desk.”
“It’s nice and neat, like your apartment.”
“I don’t think well in clutter. Some things come more easily to me than others. I have to train hard to stay on top of my kick-ass game.”
“But you can kick ass?”
She took no offense. “Well enough. And I can shoot.”
“Good. We like FBI agents who can shoot.”
“You enjoy your family and your work, but you have a solitary job. You don’t like oversight. You trust your own instincts.” Emma paused under the wide branches of an oak. “You don’t let many people know you, do you?”
He stood in front of her, close. She could see the rough day’s growth of beard on his jaw, and a small scar on his right cheek.
There was another scar next to his left eye. She hadn’t noticed before. She could think of about a dozen reasons it probably wasn’t a good sign that she was noticing now.
He put a hand on her hip, under her jacket. “Maybe you’re more like me than you think,” he said in a low voice.
“I’m not like you at all.”
The couple with the basset hound zigzagged past them, smiling and saying hello, and Emma took the opportunity to cut
