The next morning arrived as quickly as it left. Assumpta had finished all of the days' jobs by half ten – anything to keep her from analysing that look that Peter gave her as she left the pub the night before.

As if her guilt wasn't enough.

Niamh had told her when she came in that Father Clifford had taken one too many that evening and had to be escorted home by Doc Ryan. His abstinence, she'd put it down to. He hadn't been to the pub in over a fortnight – this is what self-denial leads to, the barmaid had warned.

She didn't know the half of it

Niamh had wanted to know about the date of course – would there be another? She was disappointed when Assumpta had brushed off her line of questioning, feigning tiredness instead.

The publican glanced at her watch. She had all of three and a half hours before the interrogation began again along with Niamh's shift. She'd better make this good.

The truth was that the date was fine. It was fine. The conversation flowed along with the wine. Enda was courteous – complimentary, even. He'd offered to pay but wasn't insulted when she insisted that they split the cheque.

If he'd noticed an atmosphere with the Priest, he didn't mention it – bar a throw-away observation that for an atheist she was very friendly with Father Clifford; a remark she had rebuked with her own observations about the musician's relationship with his babysitter.

Assumpta had refrained from asking about his wife. Unlike Peter Clifford, she wasn't about to betray a confidence that wasn't even hers to keep. It was true – the publican wasn't wild about being on a date with a man who was already married, but she wasn't wild about fooling around with a Priest either and she'd done that. Willingly. Oh so willingly.

Her lips tingled at the memory of their encounter. Assumpta wondered, yet again, how a curate learned to kiss like that? Had Peter had girlfriends before he'd taken the Holy Order? Just how experienced was he? An involuntary blush crept across her cheeks.

If he kissed like that, with so much passion and technique, who knows what it'd be like if she'd allowed the encounter to evolve further. Deeper, even…

It can't happen.

Peter had warned her of that very fact. It can't happen. It can't. Father Clifford was a good man – a good Priest – he didn't deserve to be the object of desire for some romance-deprived heretic.

Assumpta recalled that this had occurred once before and the result? Peter was run out of town – forced to leave the country, even. She wasn't about to let the same thing happen again. Not when she'd fought so ardently to keep the Englishman here in the first place.

An unanswered telephone snapped her back with a jolt.

"Assumpta, where are you?" Padraig's accusatory blast from the other end of the phone brought her tumbling back to the here and now.

"Excuse me?"

"Ryan's Daughter. First read-through. We're all here waiting for our leading lady."

The publican silently scolded herself forgetting. "Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry" she offered, apologising it would seem for more than her bad memory. "I'm leaving now."

Just as she replaced the receiver into its nook and set about finding her keys and locking the various doors to the pub, another more crucial thought occurred to her.

Peter would be at the rehearsal. Peter would be there.

As she passed a mirror, Assumpta took an extra thirty seconds that she didn't have to pinch colour into her cheekbones and run a comb through her hair.

The Priest would be annoyed with her, there was no doubting that. But the thought of seeing him – just being in his presence – was enough to send Assumpta's heart aflutter, as her head and her mannerisms quickly followed suit.

The truth of the matter was, Father Clifford was far too deflated to be annoyed with anyone. He had plenty of cause to, that much was certain – and not just at Assumpta.

Everyone arrived late to the play rehearsal. No one had remembered their script. Father MacAnally had arranged their meeting for this evening, in Fitzgerald's pub no less – as if to rub salt into an already very open wound.

And he was hung over. Very hung over.

"Can we have some quiet, please?" he'd begged his cast of amateurs, to no avail. Reluctantly, he held his head between his hands as he rocked, hopelessly from one side of his bespoke Director's chair to the other.

Just as the noise reached an optimum, Assumpta stepped through the village hall door.

Peter did his best to ignore her.

"Places please, ladies and gentleman. We're ready to begin at last."

The publican rolled her eyes at the curate's passive aggression and commented as she passed him. "Just because you're on time doesn't mean that you're all there."

"I'm all there" he assured snippily.

She couldn't resist a rebuttal. "Your jumper is on inside out."

Peter's hand shot straight to the raised woollen seams of his sweater and felt that sure enough, the underside was what was exposed. Feeling his exhaustion subside and his fury gain ground, he removed the offending item completely and shot the publican a hostile look.

She danced merrily up the steps to the stage, taking pleasure it seemed to him, in the Priest's abject misery.

Oh, he'd get her. He would get her.

"Right, we'll go from Act One, Scene Five." Peter looked at Assumpta pointedly. "The love scene."

The publican rolled her eyes at him for a second time and turned to the correct page in the script. Brian, in his infinite wisdom, had suggested Liam for the part of the Major and following no immediate objections (she'd voiced countless since then) Liam was booked, much to the Irishman's delight.

"This is the one where I get to kiss her, Father?"

"The very same."

"Fan-tastic." Liam rubbed his hands with glee as he found his mark beside her on the stage.

Father Clifford pretended to concentrate on his script, deflecting Assumpta's seething glare with ease. "When you're ready," he announced.

Even before Liam had uttered his first line, the Priest yelled 'Cut'.

"What?"

"Your hat Liam?" the Director observed. "You think you could take it off?"

Liam looked reluctant. "Can't do that I'm afraid" he answered before continuing in a loud whisper "Dandruff."

Assumpta looked like she'd smelt something rancid. Peter tried to keep from smiling. "I think we'll take our chances."

With a shrug, the would-be Major removed his baseball cap and gave his head a rub.

"From the top – now remember, there are few words in this scene; it's all action. When you're ready."

Father Clifford leant back in his chair, unsure whether the upcoming love scene would hurt or amuse him. Was he ready to see another man kiss Assumpta – even if that other man was Liam?

Before he had the chance to follow this train of through to its inevitable conclusion, the scene was over almost as soon as it had begun, with what was perhaps the least satisfying kiss the stage had ever seen.

"Cut!" Peter announced wearily. "Look, I know this is difficult but you have to communicate more passion here."

The publican fumed silently while Liam looked completely flummoxed. "What do you mean? She wouldn't even open her mouth, Father!"

"Do you mind?" Assumpta crossed her arms and marched to stage left, facing the wings.

A chorus of titters emanated from the rest of the players while Peter held his aching head in his hands. He needed to change tact.

"Assumpta – you're attracted to this man even though you shouldn't be." He paused and gave her a meaningful look. "You know it's wrong but that makes you want it even more."

Peter turned to face Liam before she could manage a response. "Liam – this kiss is the pre-cursor to something – something life-changing. It will in all likelihood end Rosy's marriage and sully her reputation" he paused and considered briefly how far to the truth he'd reached. '"You need to make it count."

There was complete silence in the auditorium in anticipation of this new kiss. Peter watched the performance with a new vigour. His body was practically arched on the foot of the stage in anticipation.

This time, the kiss was much better – relaxed, even. But it lacked the fervency that the Director demanded from his actors. Impatient and with his own stage kiss fresh in his memory, Peter intercepted the performance.

"Look, it's not rocket science," he joked good-naturedly, positioning himself between the two co-stars. "Liam, you need to really grab Assumpta – push her against the wall."

Cautiously, the curate placed his palms on either side of Assumpta's shoulders. "You need to look her in eye, read what she is telling you…" Peter studied his actor in kind, discreetly running the underside of his thumb along the exposed skin of her shoulder.

"Then gently, decidedly, move in to kiss her." He leaned closer almost imperceptibly, his mouth salivating just a little; the heavy lids of his eyes closed all but a centimetre or two.

Assumpta looked at him half with longing, half as if he'd gone mad. Was he really doing this? Here – now?

"Does that make sense?"

The Director's command snapped everyone back to reality. As deftly as he'd interrupted the performance, he removed himself from it, signalling for his players to begin again.

But this time, his Rosy was not as accommodating. "You want more passion do you, Father?" Assumpta asked him in a low voice, her tone laced with suggestion. "Play the part yourself!"

With that, the publican threw down her script and exited off the stage. Peter sighed an audible sigh, and announced wearily, "Let's take five, then" to the rest of the group.

Padraig placed a conciliatory hand on the curate's shoulder. "Never mind, Father. We always knew that one was too hot to handle."

Although he didn't respond immediately, a slow smile crept over Peter's face.

"I'm up for the challenge."

A/N - Thanks so much for all of your lovely comments. This story is really fun to write so I'm glad that it's going down so well. I hope this latest chapter is received just as well...