We met by chance, one split decision to turn right instead of left made no sense at the time but it felt right, and then there was you. - Nikki Rowe

April 5, 1920

Mater Misericordiae Hospital

"My brother?" sputtered Tom, sitting straight up in the bed and wincing at the sudden movement. "And your sister?"

"Be careful, darling," Sybil chided, "you'll pull out your stitches."

"Never mind me." Tom's voice was ominous. "My baby brother is going to need stitches when I get through with him! What was the little alley cat thinking?"

Sybil giggled. Men! "When you get through with him? Why don't you try to walk more than ten feet before you get out your sword and shield, darling? You couldn't beat up baby Fiona in your condition!

"Besides, I don't think it was one-sided, Tom. My sister looked thoroughly pleased with herself. Embarrassed to have been caught, but quite happy."

"But how did this happen? Why didn't we notice anything was going on?" Tom wriggled to the edge of the bed and shuffled into his slippers. He stood up, swaying.

"And where do you think you're going, dear?" Sybil crossed her arms over her chest and regarded her husband with a narrow eye.

Tom sat back down on the bed and gave her a sulky look. "I've been stuck in this bed for a week now. I'm still weak as a kitten, and if I don't get some exercise I'll never get out of here, much less have the strength to kick Patrick's arse!" He offered the most pitiful look he could muster. "You should be helping! How can you be so harsh?"

His wife laughed, and threw her hands up in the air. "All right! If you promise to go easy, I'll let you walk the whole length of the corridor today…but don't blame me when you can't get out of bed tomorrow!"

As they shuffled down the hospital corridor, the conversation turned back to Edith and Patrick.

"I just don't understand it," Tom muttered. "They have nothing at all in common. I mean, she's an aristocrat, and he's just a poor boy from Dublin. What could they possibly talk about?"

"Well, from what I saw, they weren't actually doing much talking," Sybil giggled. "And I seem to remember another aristocrat who got on famously with a poor boy from Dublin. Everyone was quite surprised and rather put out when they announced their relationship, if I recall." She laughed at the wistful look on his face. Those memories were sacred for both of them.

"Yes, but we spent years just talking!" he objected. "We didn't toss off our clothes and get it on in the Renault a few months after we met, did we? I know Patrick has been a ladies' man since he was sixteen, but Edith? I never thought she had it in her! I mean, I always suspected that Mary had a wild streak that might come out one day, but Edith seemed such a mouse." Tom shook his head in bewilderment. "It'll never last, you know."

"Tom! I'll bet that everyone back at Downton is shocked that we have lasted this long!" Sybil stopped in the middle of the hospital corridor, reached up and pulled his head down to give him a long, passionate kiss, ignoring the shocked look on the face of an elderly man who inched by pushing a walker. "How long do you give us?" she whispered, when she came up for air.

"If you do that again," he breathed, "in my weakened condition, I'd say probably another few minutes. But…" He put his arms around his wife and laid his cheek on the top of her head, "I could be wrong. We should probably test my theory, to be sure." And he cupped her face and covered her mouth with his own. Not so weak, thought Sybil.

"Why can't I have that nurse!" came a querulous voice from down the corridor.

April 7, 1920

The Collins Home

Michael's face was impatient as he met Kathleen at the front door. "C'mon, Katie! You shouldn't keep Deaglan waiting! It sends the wrong message!"

Kathleen snorted. "I don't remember you caring so much about Deaglan's feelings a couple of weeks ago. In fact, you never seemed eager to walk me to his house before—Mam had to make you!"

"Not true," his tone was lofty. "I didn't mind; I just didn't know him as well then. I like your lad; I think he's perfect for you. I do!" he insisted when she continued to laugh at him.

"You mean you think his uncle Michael is perfect for you, don't you? You want to sit at the great man's knee and learn all about…let me see…accounting, is it?"

"Don't make fun, Katie. Michael Collins is the greatest man in Ireland. We're going to win our independence from England, and he's most of the reason why. And I just want to learn as much as I can from him, that's all!"

"And what about Deaglan's sister? She's rather pretty, don't you think? Those big brown eyes, and all those dark curls?"

"Who?" Michael looked confused for a moment. "Oh, Aislinn. Yeah, I suppose." He gave his sister a sidelong look. "Don't go trying to play matchmaker, sis. She's not my type. Too bossy. And she reads too much." He shook his head. "Besides, I don't have time for women. That's Patrick's territory."

Kathleen jumped on that one. "Oh, and isn't it amazing about Patrick and Edith? Carrying on right under all our noses, and nobody guessed. Not even Sybil! Isn't it romantic?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Romantic. Anyway, we're here. Do you think he's home?" Michael ran up the steps.

Kathleen rolled her eyes and followed him. He was useless! Her brothers were all so different; good thing she loved all of them, because they drove her to distraction, each in his own way.

Aislinn looked up from a book as they came into the house. "Deaglan's in the kitchen, Kathleen. He made you something." She grimaced. "Better take a tiny bite; Deck's not known for his cooking." She grinned. "He must really like you; I've never seen him bake before." She clucked her tongue. "I think he assumes that because you work at a bakery, you eat cookies all day. Men are so stupid!" She laughed and went back to her book, ignoring Michael. He didn't even notice, because Ireland's minister of finance was just coming down the stairs. Michael Collins smiled at the Bransons.

"Hello, Kathleen. Better hurry, before Deaglan burns down the house." He gave his charming, effortless grin. "Michael, care to join me for a whiskey?"

As the two men moved away and into her uncle's office, Aislinn's eyes followed them. She sighed, pushed her curls out of her face and tried to return her attention to her book, but her thoughts were elsewhere. That Michael Branson was really quite good-looking, she thought. Shame he was such a stiffnecked git. And anyway, she was not interested in any of those IRA boys. Fighting and violence—and talking about fighting and violence—might be romantic to some people, but she lived with it every day of her life, and all that passion could be a bit tiring. Aislinn realized her book was upside down, and righted it. Too bad…he was really handsome.

April 18, 1920

Murphy's Pub

Evan watched as Maire bustled around the pub, carrying eight pints without effort and treating each customer as if he were the most important man in the world. Each Irish customer, of course. There weren't as many British soldiers or RIC policemen at Murphy's anymore—not since the Black and Tans had arrived. It was almost as if the RIC was ashamed of its new recruits and wanted to keep them out of the public eye. Or maybe it was the way the regulars tended to leave the bar as soon as more than one Black and Tan walked through the door. Whatever the reason, Evan was just as happy to be in the minority here.

Maire skirted a table, her skirt swishing, and slapped the groping hand of a patron who had imbibed a bit too much tonight. Usually Tim Connelly knew better, but he had a soft spot for Maire, and when he was in his cups he forgot just who it was he was dealing with. He took the rebuff without rancor, giving her a sloppy grin as she passed. Just another night at Murphy's.

She slid into the seat across from Evan, who graced her with his soft hazel gaze. God, she loved his eyes, she thought. His soul shone through them…the honesty that formed the bedrock of his character and sent her pulse racing. Evan was certainly handsome—tall and lean, his dark brown hair waving softly over his forehead and those gorgeous eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled, but that wasn't what drew her to him. It was his simple decency.

Maire prized honesty above all other traits. She had been raised with men who possessed integrity in spades, so from childhood she had been conditioned to expect the same from other males she met. But in this she had been sorely disappointed. First there had been Sammy Herlihy when she was fifteen. All right, he'd been just a lad, but she had still expected him to mean it when he told her she was special…until he'd pushed her up against the schoolyard fence and tried to put his hand up her dress. She'd run home in tears, and Sammy had been given an education in the persons of Michael and Patrick Branson.

She had been shy around men after that, and none had kept her attention. Then last year she had met Cian O'Neill, the charming older man who had hung on her every word—so polite and considerate, and all the time he had been trying to get information that he could use to destroy her family. That was it for her. There hadn't been another man who had piqued her interest…until Evan Langdon. Sweet, compassionate…British.

And that was the problem. It was wrong, and she knew it. He had shown her nothing but kindness and respect…hell, he had saved her from those monsters…and she really, really liked him. Maybe more than liked. Maire sighed. If she put so much importance on honesty, perhaps she should try being honest with herself. The truth was, despite all her efforts, something was developing in the part of her heart where Evan resided—something beyond friendship or gratitude. And she didn't want to have such feelings for an Englishman. She refused to allow them.

It worked for Sybil and Tom, and apparently Patrick had been sharing more than conversation with Sybil's sister Edith, which was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard, but Maire knew that she was not like them. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get past Evan's Britishness. How could anything work between them? She would never go to England, and how could he stay here in Ireland? Neither of them would find acceptance in the other's world.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Evan asked her. "You're off in another time and space."

"It's nothing. I'm just tired." And where was her honesty, when it counted?

"Well, your shift is almost up, isn't it? I'll walk you home tonight."

"No! Evan, you can't! You'll get in trouble if you're seen out there with me!"

He sighed and straightened his shoulders, looking straight into her eyes with his steady gaze.

"I don't care. I've made a decision. My time with the army is almost up, and when it's over I'm not going to reenlist. I can't stand what's happening here any longer. I'm going to go back to Cornwall and finish my medical training. I can be of more use as a doctor."

Maire felt an electric shock go through her at his words. He was leaving! Leaving Ireland…leaving her. Suddenly she wanted to burst into tears at the thought of losing him. She wanted to throw herself at him, go down on her knees and beg him to stay.

She did none of those things, of course. She stared into his eyes, wanting to memorize everything about his face, his voice, his expressions and mannerisms. Imprint his image on her memory for when he was gone. She felt lost, like a fish thrown up on the bank, unable to breathe.

"I-I'll miss you," she said finally, her voice desolate.

"I want you to come with me." His voice was soft and low, trembling slightly.

Had she heard right? "What?"

"I never expected to find someone like you," he said, rushing his words now, as if time were the enemy. "I remember the first time I saw you—I almost didn't come into the pub that night. In a split second I made a decision to stop and have a drink. It didn't make sense; I was tired, I needed sleep, not beer, but it felt right…and so I walked in…and then there was you."

Maire was silent, frozen in place by his words. She stared at him in shock, unable to speak.

"I'm asking you to marry me, Maire Branson. I love you and I want to spend my life with you. I don't care where; if you don't want to come home with me I'm willing to stay here with you, and go to medical school in Ireland." He took her unresisting hand in his own. "I love you," he repeated. "I will love you no matter where I am…no matter where we are…"

Something in her eyes stopped him. Ice began to form in his veins as they stared at each other for a long moment. Then Maire spoke, in a voice not her own—a stranger's voice.

"Evan, I-I can't—

"Corporal Evan Langdon?" Two British officers stood next to their table. Where had they come from? thought Maire in confusion. All she could think about was what he had just said and what she must say to him. And then one of the officers spoke, and his words sent her mind reeling.

"Corporal Evan Langdon, I am arresting you for the murder of Lieutenant Robert Martin. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"


A/N: Of all the players in the struggle for Irish Independence, Michael Collins was the most formidable. As director of intelligence for the IRA, he crippled the British intelligence system in Ireland and replaced it with his own network of spies and assassins. At the same time, in his role as minister of finance for the republican government, he raised and gave out huge sums of money on behalf of the rebel cause. Although many attempts were made, the British were never able to capture Collins or stop his work. He was known colloquially as "The Big Fellow", and was idolized by republican Irishmen. His exploits, as well as his charm, intelligence, ruthlessness and daring, made him a legend in his country.

Pronunciation Guide:

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra