Love That Never Dies

Not even Fiona Morgan’s supersensitive natural psychic powers had prepared her for this turn of events in her life. The year was nineteen fifty nine. Here she was in this rundown abandoned castle reeking of dampness, lugging her suitcase under the tall stone archway of Bedford Castle in County Tipperary in Ireland. Fiona had no one to turn to for advice in this hopeless dilemma. Imagine the audacity of the Mayor of Limerick, Rory McCormack, believing she would marry him. At five feet, six inches tall, weighing one hundred and twenty pounds with corn silk blonde hair framing an exquisitively sensitive face and eyes of an unfathomable sorrow, Fiona was a poor match for the three hundred pound brawny man. His arms looked as if they belonged to a boxer. But it was the coldness and narrowness of his steel grey eyes that terrified her. The determined chin bespoke a man not to be crossed.

Fiona had never entertained the idea of marriage. At eighteen years of age it was far from her mind.