St. John is unmarried, he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close, his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy, he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger’s hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John’s last hour, his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this, “My Master,” he says, “has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly—‘Surely I come quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond—‘Amen, even so come, Lord Jesus!’”
Also available from this author at Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Bound and Determined
Sierra Cartwright
Excerpt
Chapter One
Bollocks.
Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo.
He’d seen pictures of her—his sworn enemy—online. His luggage contained a folder full of information about her.
He’d chased her across two continents and through half a dozen cities in the United States. He thought he knew everything about her yet nothing had prepared him for the first in-person sight of her.
He’d known she was an Irish step dancer, but the dossier provided by his grandmother’s people hadn’t mentioned that the talented Ms O’Malley also played three different types of drums as well as the bagpipes.
Seeing a good-looking woman, enemy or not, in snapshots was one thing, but he’d had no idea he’d have such an immediate, raw, unwanted masculine reaction to seeing her athletic body.
Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. He imagined he could see her nipples all the way from here.
Her kilt was way too fecking short. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a pair of sexy black knickers. At least she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt.
Her muscular legs were bare, and her socks had pooled around her ankles.
Even though he watched her squeeze the pipes from halfway across the pub, his cock hardened.
Noise in the room diminished as gazes turned towards the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public and he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.
He took another long drink from the glass. He’d be needing another pint in only minutes. A man needed fortification to manage the likes of Sinead O’Malley and manage her he would.
He wouldn’t be leaving Denver without her in tow. He intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Dominate her. Make her his submissive. Claim her as his.
The eight-hundred-year feud between their clans ended now even if he had to tie her to his bed and spank the sass out of her.
Since it wouldn’t be seemly to drag her off the stage, bend her over, yank down her knickers, make her call him Sir as he fucked her ragged on top of a table, he bided his time.
She’d started dancing with the group a few years ago as a way to pick up a little extra cash. He hadn’t taken the time to listen to the CD provided of her music and he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the sound of the Celtic-infused rock band that pulled from all nations. Or maybe he was just intrigued by the lass and wasn’t really hearing the music.
All the other band members fell silent as she worked the pipes.
A spotlight hit her. He recognised the Kelly tartan…from her mother’s side of the family. The Kellys were one of the few Irish clans entitled to wear a tartan—the same as the royal house of Stewart.
Because of the distance and the way she held the bagpipes, he couldn’t quite read the writing on her white T-shirt. The distance and dim lighting made it impossible to see her eyes, even though the information he had on her said they were green.
Then again, the file said she had blonde hair. It hadn’t mentioned the fiery highlights that seemed to ignite in the overhead lighting. It hadn’t mentioned that the lengths fell in bedroom-like disarray across her forehead and around her face and shoulders.
It looked the way it might after a good, long, hard screw.
“Got your eye on that one, have you, mate?” the barkeep asked, pocketing the tip Jack had left on the bar. “She’s been in here half a dozen times in the past year. A right handful, she is. Won’t be having none of the likes of you.” He glanced at her then back at Jack. “She won’t be having any of us for that matter.”
“We’ll be seeing about that.”
“Good luck. She vanishes after the show. She doesn’t stay at the same place the rest of the band does. She’s talented all right. But she ain’t interested in any socialising. She’ll cut any man to the quick.”
Jack nodded, considering himself warned. “Fetch me another pint, mate.”
The bartender nodded and moved off.
Jack returned to watching the woman. It could be worse, he supposed. She was passionate, if her music was anything to go by. In need of taming, if the bartender’s words were anything to go by.
Her passion turned him on. .
He’d want Sinead, no matter what his máthair Chríona, grandmother, said. The way Sinead moved her hips made his cock harden. He could almost imagine the way she smelt, of musk and desire.
He joined the applause as she ended her solo and she moved to the back of the stage.
He drank his second stout and enjoyed the rest of the set. Part of him wished she would dance again. Another part of him was relieved she hadn’t. He wasn’t sure his libido could take seeing her underwear and bare midriff.
At the end of the set, the gathered crowd gave a lukewarm applause. He watched Sinead place the pipes on the wooden planks, then plop herself down on an amplifier.
Her skirt rode even higher and she didn’t sit like a lady. Now he knew why Yanks drank their beer so damn cold. ‘Twas to cool the flames of ardour.
He watched—or more like it, stared—as she e Heuncapped a bottle of water, tipped her head back and drank deeply.
The band’s lead singer said a few words to Sinead then nodded and moved off, leaving her alone.
Jack seized the opportunity.
In a few steps, he was on the stage. A couple more brought them face-to-face, or, in this case, her face to his crotch. And wasn’t this his lucky day? It wouldn’t be long before he’d have her on her knees, hands secured behind her back as she sucked his cock. “Great show.”
She smiled. It wasn’t a warm and welcoming smile. It was more the smile of a princess. It was polite enough, dutiful, but it sure as hell wasn’t inviting.
The houselights came up a little more.
This close to her, he saw a few beads of sweat on her brow and across the sweet curve of her upper lip. And he was also close enough to read the writing on her in-your-face T-shirt: You’re not rich enough. Smart enough. Or man enough. Don’t even try.
They’d be seeing about that, as well. “Do you intimidate most men, Sinead?”
“All men,” she corrected, recapping her water bottle. “I don’t have time for men.” She levelled a gaze at him. “Even if I wanted a quick toss, it wouldn’t be with an anonymous man. You groupies are all the same.”
The way she talked about sex, with her brogue and feminine sensuality that nothing could disguise, made his cock throb. He wasn’t just hard now. Not at all. He was ready. “Although I wouldn’t mind bedding you, I’m not interested in a quick toss, Ms O’Malley.”
“An autograph? Do you have a pen? Then perhaps you’ll leave me the hell alone?”
Polite, wasn’t she? “I’m not looking for an autograph.”
“Well, then, if you’ll excuse me?”
She stood and turned away. By the time she’d taken two steps, he’d curved his hand around her shoulder and applied enough pressure that she stopped.
Slowly she turned back to face him again. Since he stood nearly a foot taller than her, she had to tip her head back in order to meet his gaze. “Take your hand off me. I’ve another set to prepare for.”
“I’ve travelled halfway round the world to meet you.”
“You should have bought the CD and saved yourself several hundred pounds.” Her smile was chilling. “You’ve met me.” She reached her hand up to pry his fingers off her shoulder. “Release me immediately.”
He was aware of the way she felt beneath him, womanly, but with unaccountable strength. He wanted her. “We’ve important things to discuss, Sinead O’Malley.”
“You are beginning to annoy me.” She exhaled.“I’m thinking maybe you’re a bit off your rocker, Mr…”
He slowly released her.
“Jack.” He extended a hand. She ignored it. Smart lass. “Jack Quinn.”
“Jack Quinn?” Her mouth dropped.
A very perfect, very pink tongue sneaked out. Good God, didn’t that cause another fantasy?
“The Jack Quinn? Hated enemy. Mad as a hatter?”
He didn’t quite know what to say to that. A man who chased a woman halfway around the world because of a comb didn’t seem to be all there.
“Sorry, I didn’t recognise you without the horns and tail.”
“I’ve never been the devil, Sinead.”
“Couldn’t prove that by my family.”
She took her time looking him over from his head to his dusty shoes. Judging by her sneer, she found him wanting.
Not the usual reaction from the ladies.
“So you’re the bastard who’s been stalking me?”
“I’ve been trying to get an audience with your highness for a while now,” he agreed.
“You’ve been following me for six thousand miles, Mr Quinn.”
E-mails, letters, phone calls, messages at venues along the way. “You’re a difficult woman to reach.”
“I’m sorry to say you travelled all this way to have me reject you and your ridiculous marriage proposal in person.” She moved an electrical cord out of the way with her toes. “Since you’re apparently thick or stubborn or both, the answer to your proposal, Mr Quinn, is not just no. It’s hell no. I don’t care if it would make your grandmother happy or secure your family line. I will not marry you. Not now, not ever.”
She gave him a sunny smile that really, he knew, meant ‘fuck you’.
“You are blunt.”
“I need to be as you’re apparently addled. Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off the stage and out of my life.”
“We need to talk, Sinead. We will talk.”
“I have nothing beyond that one word to say to you.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m not interested in your family’s problems.”
Her green eyes flashed irritation and her voice dropped an octave or two. “I’m not interested in you, Jack Quinn.”
She’d added the last, he supposed, in case he’d missed her point.
“You can get back on a plane and go home. County Mayo, isn’t it?”
As if she had to ask. Their shared history went back well over eight hundred years. The details of the sordid events were recorded for all time in the Annals of the Four Masters—the compilation of Irish history that dated back nearly two thousand years.
Sinead looked at him. Her eyes flashed venom. “Cuimhnich air na daoine o’n d’thainig thu.”
She speaks the tongue, does she? “Remember the men from whom you are sprung,” he translated.
“I, for one, will never forget.”
“It’s not just my problem, Ms O’Malley. It’s ours.”
“Ours,” she repeated. “Ours?” Her laugh was more an unladylike snort.
“Everything okay here, Sinead?” the drummer asked, climbing onto the stage and offering her a short glass of amber liquid. Good Irish whisky, Jack presumed.
“I can handle Mr Quinn myself.” Sinead accepted the glass.
The young man glared at Jack when Jack unashamedly drank his fill of the woman in front of him. Did the whelp have a crush on the woman? Jaysus, were they screwing each other?
And too bad if they were.
Sinead was going to be his. He’d not let a gobshite stand in the way.
She tipped back her head, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat, then closed her eyes and downed the beverage in a single swallow.
She made a soft kissing sound as she closed her eyes in apparent rapture.
Lord have mercy.
He ached to stroke his knuckles along the curve of her cheekbone, trail the pad of his index finger down her nape…
She sighed. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “You’re not just a bad dream? More’s the pity.” She smiled at her protector. “Mr Quinn was just leaving, Brandon.”
“Bugger all,” Jack said. “You might as well hear me out.”
“You’ve nothing to say that I want to hear.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing except goodbye.” She slid the glass onto the speaker.
“Ouch.” He gave her his quick, calculated, disarming grin that always scored points in contract negotiations. It didn’t seem to soften her at all.
“You sure you don’t need help taking out the rubbish?” Brandon asked.
“Go on with you. If he hasn’t left within a couple of minutes, I’ll call security.”
Jack wondered if she’d be so blasé if she knew he intended to tie her up, tie her down, drag her back to Ireland and his family home within the next twelve hours. Kicking, screaming, biting, it didn’t matter. In fact, he looked forward to her fighting him. It would make his victory all the sweeter.
“Go,” she told Brandon again.
The overconfident pup looked over his shoulder and glared at Jack before moving off.
“The lad, Brandon. Is he a member of your fan club?”
“One of the hundreds.” She checked her watch, a whimsical piece with white gloves at the end of the hour and minute hands. “I’ll give you two minutes.” She folded her arms, with her left wrist on top, where she could keep an eye on the ticking seconds.
“Do you believe in curses, Ms O’Malley?”
“Not on your life.”
She twitched. It was subtle, but her nose wrinkled and her brows furrowed. Being a descendent of the Kellys and O’Malleys, there was no way she didn’t believe in curses.
“Or the Banshee?” According to Celtic legend, the Banshee was either human, fae, or even spirit. To some she was young and beautiful, to others, an old hag. She wailed, keened, cried, or dropped a comb as a portend of death or destruction.
“I believe in stuff you can touch with your hands, Mr Quinn. Instruments, balance sheets, ledgers. I don’t have time to be fanciful.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a metal comb.
As the silver winked, reflecting the overhead lights, colour drained from her cheeks. He watched her fight the urge to take it from his hand, to see if it was real.
She had the same reaction his grandmother had.
“My máthair Chríona found this.”
Instead of taking the comb, she reached for her whisky glass. Realising it was empty, she rolled the glass between her palms. “My condolences, in advance, to your family.”
Bitch. Temper and temptation warred within him. No one mattered more to him than his máthair Chríona. His jaw tightened. The less civilised side of his nature demanded he sling Sinead over his shoulder, drag her from the room then find the nearest wall and slam her up against it.
He deliberately put the comb back in his pocket, his actions controlled. Then, anger in check, he discarded the option of fucking her ragged
and settled for capturing her chin, not at all gently, between his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke, his tone was harsh, his words blunt. “You deserve a good hiding, Sinead.”
That shut her up.
Heat chased up her cheeks, replacing the colour that had momentarily drained away when she had seen the comb. When she opened her mouth again, she was back in full form. “A good hiding, is it? I’ve already said you’re not man enough for me.”
“Shall we see?” He stroked his middle finger across the top of her lip. “I think I’m just the man to teach you to mind your manners, lass.”
“You won’t be touching me again, diabhal.”
Like hell he wouldn’t. He intended to be on her. In her. “You are aware, wombat, that the Banshee doesn’t follow all families. She does not follow the Quinns.” He smiled viciously. “She follows the O’Malleys. My máthair Chríona believes the warning was meant for you.”
The flush on her cheeks darkened.
With precise aim, firing back at the direct hit she’d scored, he added, “Not many of you left now, are there?”
“You really are a bastard, Quinn.”
She curled her hand into a fist and Jack wasn’t sure whether or not she was going to take a swing at him. Part of him hoped she did. Then he’d have every reason to sling her over his shoulder and drag her back to his hotel.
“Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.”
May the cat eat you, and may the cat be eaten by the devil. Or her figurative meaning, screw you.
She trembled, though, despite her bravado, despite her hard words. He’d unnerved her. And, he wondered, what bothered her most—him, or the Banshee? “The curse ends with us, Sinead. With you becoming my bride.”
Jane Eyre Page 64
