Free Luck of the Irish by Sara Humphreys Page B

ya want one? A wee babe of your own?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe if I still had my parents or siblings or something it wouldn’t feel so... final .” She let out a growl of frustration before shifting her body so she could look him in the face. The empathy in his eyes almost did her in because she expected to find pity there. But she didn’t. All she saw was tenderness and acceptance. “I don’t know why I told you that. I mean, nobody knows about that. Not even my friend, Alex, and she’s about the only person I really have in my life. I guess you’re safe because you’re leaving soon anyway.”
    Declan opened his mouth to respond, but Maggie slapped her hand over it preventing him from saying anything.
    “Don’t say a word. Really, it’s fine, Declan.” His brow knitted together and he looked at her like she was crazy. Maybe she was. “I’m losing it.”
    Maggie kissed his forehead before climbing out of bed and going to her dresser. She kept talking because it made her feel a little less crazy while she pulled on a little, white, silk nightie from the top drawer.
    “You know if my Aunt Lizzie were here she’d scold me and say, Maggie McGregor O’Malley, ya stop feelin’ sorry for your wee self this minute. Ya have the luck of the Irish girl, and Irish eyes should always be smilin’. The woman loved a good cliché.”
    When she turned around she discovered Declan standing behind her and staring at her with a look that could only be described as stunned.
    “What?” She folded her arms over her breasts and stepped back. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “Ya have the name McGregor?” he asked gruffly. “’Tis a family name?”
    “Yes.” Her hand went instinctively to the amulet around her neck. “Well, sort of. My aunt, the one who told me the stories about you and the necklace, she wasn’t really an aunt, more like a good family friend. My Aunt Lizzie and my grandmother had known each other for years.”
    “This aunt, she was a McGregor, then?”
    “Yes,” Maggie said slowly. “Elizabeth McGregor.”
    “ Mac Soith ,” he said in a rush. “Do ya have a picture of her?”
    “Sure, but why?”
    “A picture, lass,” Declan said firmly. He must have noticed the wide-eyed look on her face because he immediately softened his tone. “I beg ya.”
    Maggie went to her desk and grabbed the simple silver frame with the photo of her and Aunt Lizzie at Maggie’s college graduation. She handed it to Declan, and when all the color drained from his face a nagging sense of dread pulled at her.
    “What is it?”
    “She gave ya the amulet?” He asked quietly. “And told ya the story of Anastasia and me? Of the mirror? All of it?”
    “Yes.” Maggie fiddled with the necklace and sat on the bed, suddenly feeling unsteady on her feet. “She passed away last summer. Would you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
    “She was Malachi’s wife.” Declan placed the frame on the desk before turning his earnest face to Maggie. “Your Aunt Lizzie was a witch.”
    ***
    T o say that Declan was stunned would be an understatement. The elderly woman in the photo may not have looked like she did when Declan knew her, but there was no mistaking those eyes. They were just like the eyes of his beloved Anastasia and his wee daughter.
    “Declan?” Maggie’s sweet voice, gentle and persistent, pulled him from his thoughts. “Are you telling me that my Aunt Lizzie, the one from Ireland who my grandmother knew since God was a boy... was Anastasia’s mother?”
    “Would seem so,” he said quietly. Declan handed the frame back to Maggie and ran both hands through his hair before going to the mirror that had once been his prison. “And ya say she’s died?”
    “Yes.” Maggie nodded and moved in next to him. “You know,” she said with a laugh. I should probably freak out and be shocked by this revelation but I’m not. It all makes sense now. Why she told me the story all of these years and