by Ava Miles
Everything? Her mouth went dry at those words. Long-ignored parts of her body tingled when his piercing green eyes fell to her lips. My, it had been a long time since a real man had looked at her like that and not some jackeen, hoping to score with a country maid, or a philandering husband whose wife didn’t understand him.
No, there hadn’t been anyone interesting since Sven, the most divine Swede who’d come on holiday to hike the Irish hills and write an article about it for a nature magazine. He’d wanted to see her again, but she’d turned down his invitation to spend the weekend in Stockholm. Twice. Their fragile relationship had crumbled when she’d confessed the truth—she couldn’t meet him in Stockholm, or even in Cork. She couldn’t leave the inn. Just like her first serious love interest, Sven had balked upon learning the truth. His professions of love had dried up in an instant. He’d flinched and told her she must have a lot going on and that he wished her all the best working it out.
She’d promised herself she’d never open herself to that kind of shame and hurt again.
Trevor cleared his throat, saying, “Tempting, isn’t it?”
She let her gaze rest on him. Yes, he was tempting. Maybe fate had brought him to her door on purpose. She couldn’t discount the singular attraction she felt for him. With Trevor, she wouldn’t hope he’d fall in love with her and stay here forever. That was a stupid and unrealistic dream. No one would ever do that. But she could enjoy some male companionship. She was attracted to him, and he to her. With her first two suitors, she’d been more serious about sex, but she was thirty-four years old and some nights in the dark, she felt like she was withering away from the lack of a good man’s touch. She would take this chance fate had given her, even if she questioned the reason Trevor had come to her doorstep.
“One more condition,” she said softly.
His eyes seemed to darken to pure emerald at her tone. “Let’s hear it.”
She took a wild breath. “While you’re here, you’re not a Merriam and I’m not Ms. O’Neill. I’m just Becca and you’re—”
“Trevor,” he said, his voice dipping low like the sun on the horizon. “I see where you’re going with this. I’m a little surprised.”
She found she was breathless. “So am I. It’s a first for me.” Oh, was that revealing too much? He would use it against her, wouldn’t he?
He crossed his arms. “Why me?”
She said the first thing that came to mind. “You knew who Boru and Hatshepsut were. You…traveled to Luxor and likely other exciting places. I’ve never met anyone like that.” Sure, Sven had traveled, but never to the Valley of the Kings. And he had never intrigued her enough for her to set aside her knitting needles mid-row.
His nod was perfunctory. “Is that all?”
She waved a hand. “You’re not bad to look at.” The scrutiny in his gaze brought blood to her cheeks. “Oh, forget I said anything. Stay at The Stag’s Head.” What an idiot she’d been. “I have guests waiting.”
As she turned, his hand curled around her arm. Slowly. Gently. The heat and power of his touch stopped her in her tracks.
He moved closer and cupped her cheek in a hand as warm as one of her fresh-baked scones. “I don’t want to forget it.”
She looked up and found herself falling into the myriad green depths of his eyes. Oh, goodness, there was power here, one that resounded in her bones.
“This isn’t about putting you off either,” she said, a kick of defensiveness rising. “I could order you off my land right now and never take a meeting with you.”
He rubbed her cheekbone delicately. “I know that. Just so you know, I’m not interested in you because of the deal either. If I met you in a pub or around town, I’d ask you out.”
She’d guessed as much, but it was good of him to say so. Of course, he wouldn’t meet her out. “Then we’re on the same page, as you Americans say.”
Nodding, he stroked a finger down to her lips. “I believe we are…Becca.”
Oh, the deep baritone way he said her name made her knees weaken. No one had ever said her name quite like that, like it was a rich candy to be savored.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Trevor said, his head descending slowly. “Last call for any objections.”
Even now he seemed to be setting the terms, but she couldn’t imagine adding any caveats. “Then kiss me,” she said simply.
His lips brushed hers, and she closed her eyes, letting herself savor the smell and feel of him. The earthy cologne he wore had notes of sandalwood and pine, and his lips were soft yet insistent as they covered her own. She felt her blood beat faster, like the addition of an Irish drum to an easy medley. It was inviting her to dance, and when his arms came around her, she gave in to the desire and pressed herself to him.
He gave an audible groan, and then his hands were clutching the edges of her blouse, as though he wanted to rip it from her. Desire rushed through her, like a fast storm coming in from the sea, and she found herself fisting her hands in the shirt covering his strong back. His tongue swept across her bottom lip, and that was all the invitation she needed to pull him closer. The music of her body had a strong, insistent beat, and she found herself panting. Her hands crept up between them, needing to touch the muscles of his chest. God, he was beautiful, and she wanted him like a moth flying for the flame.
When he broke the kiss and pressed her head to his chest, she heard the knocking of his heart against his ribs and the urgent intakes of breath. Surrounded as she was by his embrace, she reveled in his warmth and quiet affection as he stroked her hair.
“Well,” he said finally, his voice rough.
“Yes, well,” she breathed out. If she’d had any remaining doubts, that kiss had dismissed them.
He stood her away from him and gazed down at her. “You’re beautiful. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I’d like both of us to say what’s on our minds. Except when it comes to business.”
“I’ll keep to our deal. Would you like to take a walk with me after you settle your guests?”
A lance of fear stole through her expectant heart. She glanced out the window. It would be dark out by then. She couldn’t walk outside at night because she couldn’t see anything around her. Her imagination went wild.
“How about a drink in my personal quarters instead?” she asked. “It’s better anyway since I don’t want any guests to see us together.”
“A rendezvous as the French say.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Even better. I like this new deal we have, Becca.”
Since it was the only one they’d ever have, she smiled back at him easily. “Me too. Enjoy your dinner, Trevor. The rabbit is delicious, if you have a mind.”
He caught her to him once again and kissed her full on the mouth. “Make sure to send out extra scones with plenty of butter. I haven’t had a good meal since I arrived, and I’m hungry.”
She was hungry too, she found, and she loved the feeling after being bereft of it for so long. “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to feast on.”
His eyes widened a moment before he outright grinned—grinned—at her. She gave in to temptation and rose on her tiptoes to kiss him smack on the lips.
“And so will I,” she said as she left him, liking this deal much better too.
Chapter 7
Saying goodbye to The Stag’s Head should have been the best part of his day after the gruel they’d served him. Who would have imagined that instead it would be Becca O’Neill? The soft hush of her voice inviting him to have an after-dinner drink—that had nearly felled him. And the way she’d said her “private quarters?” Mercy.
Still, before leaving the dinner table and seeing Uncle Arthur and Aunt Clara off, he’d pocketed two of her mouthwatering scones. They’d been delighted, though not surprised, to learn he’d be joining them at the inn.
As Trevor drove back to The Wild Irish Rose after collecting his things, he discovered he was speeding in his haste to return. He dialed i
t back when he saw his brother J.T. calling. He hit the speakerphone.
“Hey!”
“You’re dating a llama? Is this what happens when I get married and abandon you? I’m sending a doctor right away to examine your head.”
Aunt Clara hadn’t waited a moment. “It’s an alpaca, and her name is Buttercup. Don’t judge. How’s Caroline?”
His brother laughed. “Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easy. Did the owner set that animal after you or something? Connor says you’re having trouble closing the deal, and Flynn is bragging he’s going to win his bet.”
After his side deal with Becca tonight, Trevor had a feeling Flynn was right. Oddly, he wasn’t upset about the prospect of losing. “I’ll get it closed.”
“You always do. Aunt Clara says their honeymoon cottage is incredible and that Caroline and I should come visit. Maybe we can pick up the slack after she and Uncle Arthur leave. If you’re finding llamas attractive, you might need an intervention.”
As much as he’d love to see his brother, having more family underfoot wouldn’t help. “I’ll be back in Dublin soon if you want to pop over. Of course, I can come your way.”
“No, fair is fair. You spent months with me in Dare Valley. Caroline hasn’t been to Ireland, so she’s game. She’d love to meet your llama girlfriend.”
He dug into his pocket for a scone. “Alpaca, you philistine.”
“Whatever,” J.T. said. “Hey. I also wanted to give you a heads-up. Mom called Corey’s wife, and she’s flying out to visit them in Chicago. Uncle Liam is worried about her and the kids. Thought Mom might be a stabilizing influence.”
Grief thickened in his chest at the thought of Olivia and those two great boys. “I’m glad she’s going then,” Trevor said. “Connor is really torn up about it. I’ve never seen him this emotional over a deal.”
“It’s understandable,” J.T. said. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your sweetheart. I noticed she’s a hummer, not a screamer.”
Trevor chuckled despite the thickness in his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up now. I don’t want you to hurt Buttercup’s feelings when we’re ready to meet each other’s families.”
His brother was laughing so hard he was probably crying. Damn but he loved his twin. “All right. Have fun,” J.T. choked out.
“Right,” he said dryly. “Tell Caroline hello and give my best to the peeps in Dare Valley.”
“You got it,” his brother said. “Talk to you later.”
As he continued on toward the inn, Trevor gnawed on the second scone he’d taken. Connor might be emotional about this situation, but he needn’t be. Compartmentalizing had always been one of his skills. Besides, it comforted him to hear his mother was stepping in to handle things. Assumpta Weatherby Merriam was a force to be reckoned with—she always knew instinctively when one of her kids needed cheering up or a kick in the pants. He loved her like crazy, and if he had more time, he would have called her, but he caught sight of the turnoff to the inn.
As he pulled back into the parking lot for The Wild Irish Rose, he felt excited again. Grabbing his overnight bag from the back seat, he headed to the main house.
Aileen was waiting for him at the door. “Good evening, Mr. Merriam. Becca asked me to show you to your room. Then I’m to take you to her.”
Since the woman was smiling, he relaxed even more. He hadn’t thought Becca would change her tune, but he’d learned never to get too cocky with women—another life lesson from his mother.
“Thanks, Aileen,” he said, aware of Hatshep weaving around his ankles. Dammit, he was going to have more cat hair on his pant legs. The stuff just wouldn’t brush off completely, and he was damned if he was going to buy one of those pet rollers. Talk about leaving your Man Card at home.
“She likes you,” Aileen said as they walked up the wide wooden staircase.
He didn’t comment, taking in the array of paintings on the walls. J.T. and Caroline would get a kick out of them, being art people and all. Just like downstairs, there was a mix of portraits and landscapes, and Trevor wondered again if the portraits were of O’Neill relations.
As they walked down the hallway, Trevor noted a few interesting items. A set of Russian stacking dolls. A lacquer box from Russia depicting the frog prince. A few Moroccan mirrors and lamps. A hand-painted Asian silk fan. So Becca didn’t just long to travel to Egypt. Although they shouldn’t have belonged together, they’d been arranged and paired in a bold, eye-catching way. His apartment in Dublin was pretty minimalistic, which suited his travel schedule. Situated in an old warehouse, he loved the brick and had loads of family photos around, but little else. J.T. had jokingly bought him a classy nude for his birthday one year, and it hung in his den. Most of his visitors found it pretty funny. But this…
The Wild Irish Rose was more than a bed and breakfast. It was an oasis, everywhere he looked.
Aileen stopped in front of a gold door and turned the antique doorknob. “Becca thought you might be comfortable in the Oisin and Niamh room since there’s a sitting area where you can work. If you have any questions about the house or need anything else, you let us know. Now that things are squared away with you and Becca, we’ll make you feel more welcomed.”
Squared away, eh? He wondered how much the older woman knew. Something told him there were few secrets between her and the proprietor. “Thank you, Aileen. What prompted all the names for the rooms?”
“Becca thought guests might enjoy learning more about Irish folklore and the like, so she renamed all the rooms in the main house. The honeymoon cottage was the only name she preserved since it was a longstanding name in the family.”
Of course she had. He thought it a lovely touch. As he ventured into his room, Aileen stayed in the doorway. The décor was a bold and rich marriage of golds and reds, and the four-poster king bed with the canopy was going to feel like heaven compared to the full bed he’d slept in at The Stag’s Head. This was a different room than the one she’d first mentioned when he’d come to her door, and it lifted his spirits that she’d seen to his comfort in such a way. He noted the small sitting room off to the right, a soft lamp illuminating it. There was a bottle of whiskey on the side table with a note alongside a plate of scones.
“You left me more scones,” he commented as he crossed the room and picked up the note.
Enjoy your stay, it merely said. He wondered if it was Becca’s writing.
“You’re a darling, Aileen.”
“It was Becca’s idea,” she said, following him. “She saw you pocket two scones after dinner.”
So Ms. O’Neill didn’t miss anything. “What can I say? I was hungry.”
She laughed. “We’ll make sure you’re well fed here.”
He was glad to hear it. “I’ve heard of Oisin and Niamh, but I don’t remember much other than they were star-crossed lovers.”
“We have a lot of myths about star-crossed lovers in this country,” she said, leaning her head against the doorframe. “This one is especially sad. Oisin was the son of a great man, like many of the heroes are, and he and his fellow warriors came across this beautiful woman—”
“And she was more beautiful than any woman they’d ever seen,” he said, flashing her a smile and grabbing a scone. God, he loved the Irish for their storytelling. They could spout off folklore at a moment’s notice, like they were the Irish Mythic Britannica encyclopedia or something.
“She was indeed,” Aileen said, her voice taking on a hushed tone. “The other men were afraid of her, coming out of the sea on a white horse such as she did.”
“But not Oisin,” Trevor said, polishing off the scone and grabbing another.
“No, he wasn’t. In fact, they fell instantly in love and spent the next days together. People marveled at how inseparable they were, and their love grew stronger, until one day Niamh told Oisin she was bound to return to her land and her people in Tír na nÓg.”
Trevor nodded. “The land of the fairies and gods.” Everyone in Ire
land knew of the fabled place.
“Yes, indeed, but Niamh loved Oisin so much she did something very unusual. She invited him to return with her and live with her forever.”
“And so he did,” Trevor said, enjoying their conversation.
She put her hands in her pockets. “Of course, and he received all the gifts of that magical land: everlasting beauty, boundless health, and eternal happiness with the woman of his heart. For a while he was content to stay there in that far-off land with his true love, but after a time, he grew terribly sad. He missed his family, you see, and all of the places he’d once traveled with his friends.”
Although he hadn’t heard this tale before, he knew where it was headed. The Irish and their love tales were legendary, but they always ended in tragedy. It was like no one was fated to live together happily for all time. Oisin had given up everything to live in Tír na nÓg. What woman was enough? His mother would box his ears if she heard him say it that way, but she’d agree in the end that you couldn’t pin all your happiness on one person. Trevor might not have been in love before—not the big L kind—and even he knew that.
“So she sent him back,” Trevor said, since Aileen had paused like she was waiting for him to fill in the next part of the story, something the Irish often did when they told stories.
“Yes, on her very own horse,” Aileen said, “but she told him with complete seriousness that he wasn’t to put his feet on the ground of his former land, or he’d become mortal again, and they’d be separated forever.”
Cue the tragedy, Trevor thought. The moron hadn’t followed orders. He could hear his mother’s voice in his head: When someone smarter than you tells you something, you listen. She’d used that line plenty on Trevor when he was younger, and he’d gone on to use it on other people. Sometimes they listened, and that included his siblings.
