by Ava Miles
“What do you mean?” he asked, queasy now for a different reason.
“Arthur knows you lost your shirt with Becca last night,” his aunt said. “He’s sure you’re up to no good too.”
“Clara, get a hold of yourself. Usually you can drink like a fish.”
“I’m fine, Arthur.” She set her mug down with a thud. “Anything you want to tell us, Trevor? Cian doesn’t seem to like you much, and that strikes me as odd, lovely gentleman that he is.”
He weighed the situation. Best go with Cian not liking him purely because of Becca. “You’re right, Aunt. I was with Becca last night. Cian is being a little protective, is all.”
“Protective?” Uncle Arthur asked. “Looked like there’s more to it if you ask me.”
“When was the last time you felt protective of a woman, Uncle?”
He snorted. “If you must know, 1959, when some smooth-talking Spaniard tried to sweet-talk your aunt right in front of me at a gallery opening in Soho.”
His aunt cooed. “Oh, Arthur, you remember.” She glanced at Trevor. “Fernando was rather dashing, although not as dashing as that one over there.”
“Who?” his uncle joked, looking behind him.
“Haha,” she said, kicking up her feet like a much younger woman. “Trevor, pour yourself a drink and tell us about your day. Did you get a lot accomplished?”
Not a lick. In fact, he’d had trouble concentrating on work, something unusual for him. All he could think of was how animated and beautiful Becca had been, talking about the various dye baths. The ongoing barrage of jokes from his family and others in Dare Valley courtesy of Jill’s video hadn’t improved his mood. His sister Caitlyn had even gone to the effort of Photoshopping a picture of his head with an alpaca’s body standing next to Buttercup in a chapel—and sent it to his entire family, no less. Surely Connor had seen it, although his brother didn’t check his personal email at work, too focused and committed to business, he said, like he wished the rest of them would be. Everyone had laughed at that comment, except Quinn, because he was nearly as uptight as Connor.
“Business is boring, Aunt,” he said, kicking back. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Are you planning on seeing the lovely Ms. O’Neill tonight?” his uncle asked straight out.
“Arthur!” Aunt Clara exclaimed.
His uncle pinned him with that all-knowing gaze again. “Are you?”
God, it was like being called on the carpet by his dad all over again. “Yes.” He’d thought of little else.
“Be careful with her,” Arthur said, causing a hitch in Trevor’s breath. “She’s got a soft heart, I expect.”
He nodded in complete agreement, trying not to worry about it. Hell, at this point, his heart was in trouble too.
“But good choice,” his uncle said, rising again and pouring two whiskeys. “As your matchmaker, I totally approve.”
“Me too,” his aunt said as his uncle brought the drinks over. “I’m feeling all warm and mushy today.”
“It’s the beer,” Uncle Arthur said, handing Trevor a tumbler.
“Balderdash, to use your word,” she said, picking up her mug and thrusting it into the air. “To love. Wherever we find it.”
Trevor’s hand felt heavy as he tried to lift his glass. Love? Good God, not that. There were stories about the power of toasting to things like love in Ireland. Such toasts had a way of coming true.
Then his mind flashed an image of Becca standing in the doorway, holding up what he now knew was his very own shirt, the one she’d washed herself. The memory of her curved silhouette stole his breath all over again.
His hand rose of its own accord, almost as if lifted by fairies, or so an Irish storyteller would say.
He drank to the toast.
Chapter 12
Becca found herself evading the dining room that evening, certain her growing feelings for Trevor would be visible on her face, both to the man in question and her guests.
Still, she could hear his laughter from the kitchen. It was a conversation of laughter, in fact—his low, rumbling laugh, his uncle’s gravelly one, and Clara’s bell-like tones. Whatever stories they’d gotten up to telling tonight had been highly humorous from the sound of it. He would be in good spirits, and oddly, she was too, simply from hearing him laugh.
Oh, she was as lovesick as Buttercup.
“Get out of the kitchen,” Chef Padraig Buckley said, making her look over sharply. “We’re serving the duck with juniper berries tonight, Becca, not the peppercorn cream sauce. Merde alors. You’re no use to me tonight. ”
Sure enough, she looked down at the plate she was finishing and realized she’d mixed up the finishing sauce for the entree. “I’m so sorry, Chef.” Fresh back from the Cordon Bleu and an award-winning restaurant in Paris, her chef tended to lace a little French in with his Irish, usually of the profane variety.
“Out, my lovely,” he said, waving his cleaver. “You can make up for it by bringing me one of your precious Angora rabbits. I have the perfect sauce for it.”
The ongoing jokes about her giving up one of her prize Angoras hadn’t abated, but it was all in good fun. “Never.” She flashed him a smile and sailed out of the kitchen, only to run smack into Aileen.
“Goodness, girl, go back to your quarters and prepare yourself for that fine man in there. You’re making right bags of everything tonight.”
Bags, indeed. “Fine, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Aileen waggled her brows. “Not too early, I hope.”
“Oh, Aileen,” she said, mostly in exasperation, but she felt her cheeks flame. Everyone seemed to know she had a romance afoot. Scurrying off, she called Boru to her side as she swept into the main hall.
“Becca!”
Oh, the way Trevor called her name. She stopped short and turned around. Tonight he wore another suit in various shades of gunmetal gray, without a tie like usual, a decidedly sexy look on him. Oh, she had the loveliest wool to suit him, one she’d just dried from her dye bath of elderberry. She should knit him a sweater or a scarf to keep him warm on cold, rainy days. He could probably wear a scarf and still look manly. Then she realized how fanciful those thoughts were, what with the reason he was here.
She shouldn’t knit him anything.
“I saw you walk by the dining room and excused myself,” he said, crossing to her and taking her hands. “While I love my aunt and uncle and Hargreaves, it’s you I’d rather be with. Are you still working or are you free now?”
His eagerness sent her heart racing like one of her Angoras. “Aileen and Chef Padraig sent me off just now. I was going back to my chambers.”
“I thought we might take a walk,” he said, staring into her eyes with a touch of suggestion.
Was he planning on kissing her? Oh, yes, he was—his green eyes were filled with flecks of fiery gold tonight. She needed to find a dye to match that gold. “Goodness, you have beautiful eyes.”
He snorted. “Imagining a dye bath, are you?”
“What?”
“You had that same look earlier today when you were showing me your colors,” he said, taking her hand. “Come out with me. The moon is full, and I imagine your land reflects a million different colors at night.”
The longing to see it all with him was great, but she started to sweat at the thought of leaving the house with him. She could walk alone with Boru in daylight, but even then, there were moments of sheer terror intermixed with her stalwart determination. Cian and Aileen were used to it, if they accompanied her. But she couldn’t face the ocean of darkness outside, not even for Trevor. Her parents had died at night, and the horrors she’d seen had been under the veil of darkness.
“I’d rather have a drink with you in my chambers,” she said, rubbing Boru’s head when he nudged her, as if sensing her distress.
“Oh, come on,” Trevor said, throwing his hand out toward the window in the main hall showing the moonlight flickering over the open s
ea. “Look at how beautiful it is out there tonight. Do you really want to pass that up?”
“Yes,” she said, her tone hard because it had to be. “Feel free to go though. I’ll be in my chambers when you come back.”
He put his hands on her shoulders as she went to walk off. “What’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet and clearly upset. Did I say something wrong?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “I simply don’t want to walk, is all. Today was long, and I only want to sit a spell.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. “Okay, a drink with you it is.”
She wanted to ask what he’d planned on saying, but fear kept her mute. She let him take her hand instead, trying to relax back into the rhythm of being with him. They walked back to her chambers, and at the door, he made a show of pointing at it.
“Are we safe from Buttercup? I’d hate for us to be interrupted again.”
“Yes, it shouldn’t be an issue. The cause was taken care of.” Thinking about Cian’s protectiveness made her feel another pulse of uncertainty.
“Becca,” Trevor said, raising her hand to his lips. “It’s only a drink.”
After their meeting in the old kitchen, she knew better and so did he. They’d made a connection—and even if it came to ruin in the end, there was no ignoring or denying it. “Come on up.” Hatshep raced out of her bedroom when she arrived at the top of the stairs. “Well, hello there. Are you here to say hello to Trevor?”
The white cat wove around Trevor’s ankles and then seemed to speak to Boru, who emitted a loud woof. Both of them pranced off for her bedroom. Were they trying to make a suggestion? Aileen was right about her animals liking Trevor.
“Would you care for another whiskey?” she asked, knowing that he’d had one during dinner. “You’re not much of a wine drinker, are you?”
He wandered over to the sofa. “I’ll drink it, but whiskey and beer are my favorites.”
“Aileen told me your aunt took a liking to Irish beer.” Of course, the woman had also told her about their dinner outing tomorrow night and how Trevor had asked if she could join them. Her heart had cracked clean through. How she wished she could be the kind of woman who could accept the invitations of the man she fancied.
“Aunt Clara has what my family jokes is a superpower in drinking. I have it as well. I can drink anything and not be affected. A whiskey would be fine.” He touched her knitting project lying across the sofa’s arm. “Hey, this is really good. What are you making?”
“It’s a jumper,” she said, pouring them each a whiskey and bringing them over. “For your uncle.” His eyes narrowed, and she rushed to assure him. “It’s a rare thing I do for guests when they’re as nice as your uncle and aunt. I didn’t know you were related when I offered.”
He surprised her by throwing back his head and laughing. “That put me in my place.”
And yet, here she’d been thinking about knitting him something gray since he liked the color so well.
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he said, clinking their glasses together. “So tell me about this sweater. Are you making him a traditional Irish one? The cream-colored wool would suggest it.”
“Have a few Aran jumpers, do you?” she asked.
“Of course. I live here, and they do keep the cold out.”
“They’re meant to,” she said, sitting down and gesturing to the sofa beside her. “There’s a reason some call them a fisherman’s jumper. Yes, I thought it would keep him warm back in Colorado. Plus, it’s a traditional Irish handcraft, after all, although fewer and fewer are made by hand. I hope to change that, of course, with my new enterprise.” She laughed. “Aileen says I’ll need more sheep, and every time she says it, Cian gets red in the face. He and the sheep are still finding their way to an understanding. They’ve held up traffic on our road more than once and… Oh, I’m rambling on.”
“I like it when you ramble,” he said, taking her free hand and stroking it. “Do you have any other knitting projects I could see?”
She leaned back so as to take a better measure of him. “Why?”
“You love it so much, and I thought… Never mind.” He lifted his whiskey and looked away.
“What?” she pressed, feeling the air of something new and fragile blossoming between them.
“I’d like to see something you’ve made, is all,” he said. “I know quality when I see it, and the kind of wool you’re making is quality. I only wondered what the finished product looked like.”
He might have gotten all business on her, but his ears were a carmine red color. How sweet. “I’ll be right back.” She had the urge to kiss him for being so cute, and she gave in to the feeling and bussed his cheek as she left the room.
Boru and Hatshep were lying at the foot of her bed when she entered, and both looked at her and then at the door as if to inquire why she hadn’t brought Trevor. In fact, that was a right fine idea, if you asked her. She could ask him into her bedroom under the guise of looking at her knitting, allowing her to become accustomed to him in her space.
“Good idea,” she told them, and Boru barked softly. “Trevor! Why don’t you come in here so I don’t have to carry all of these things out?”
He appeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame, seemingly at ease. My, he cut a fine figure. Her mouth went dry.
“It’s tidier this way,” she said, feeling her face turn pink.
“Happy to be of help,” he said, sauntering in. “I see your friends are making themselves at home.”
She opened her closet door, and its loving comfort settled around her. “Oh, yes. They do that. You can… Sit on the bed, if you’d like. In fact, I knitted the blanket at the edge.”
“This teal one?” she heard him exclaim. “You’re kidding me.”
The closet enveloped her in the lavender scent coming from the sachets she’d packed in the shelves and the drawers. This was her true haven, her sanctuary.
Then she realized the door to the bathroom was open, and she darted to close it.
“You have a Jack and Jill bathroom?” a deep male voice asked near her ear. “And a desk in your closet?”
She jumped when she felt his breath and turned around. “Ah… It has a wonderful view. There’s a window, you see, and the view of the sea is spectacular. Cian thought adding the door to the bathroom from here was…humorous and fitting. I get to working or knitting, you see, and I lose track of everything around me.”
She held her breath, hoping he would believe her. On Cian’s say-so, her grandmother had hired someone to build this closet and make it bigger. The door to the bathroom had been a practical addition.
“You do get distracted,” he murmured, but his brow was furrowed. Desperate to distract Trevor from the oddity, she lurched into the closet and tugged out one of her pride and joys, a pale violet infinity scarf done in the difficult nupp stitch.
“This is one of mine,” she said, almost shoving it in his face. “It’s made of these little bobbles, you see. The stitch has Estonian origins, and it’s one of the most challenging you can knit.”
He didn’t look at her right away, his attention still fixed on her private space. “This is one of the biggest closets I’ve ever seen in Ireland. I mean, I thought I had a big walk-in closet. In fact, my Irish contractor ribbed me endlessly about it, even going so far as to ask if I planned on entertaining ladies in it.” Then he laughed, low and husky, making her want to shiver.
“Have you?” she blurted out. “Oh, forget I said that.”
He took the scarf from her hands and rubbed his thumbs over the stitching in a way that weakened her knees. Goodness, he was intoxicating. No one else could have excited her like this by merely touching her knitwork.
“This is stunning, Becca,” he said, his eyes lowering for a scant moment before rising and pinning her with a heated gaze that reminded her of a flambéed sauce. “And no, I haven’t used my closet for enter
taining. Yet.”
Fighting the urge to fan herself, she dove back to her shelves and looked for more projects to show him. She thrust out her favorite Irish jumper in the most beautiful midnight blue yarn she’d ever come across. “Entrelac knit.” Then she grabbed her teal duster that hit her mid-calf. “Brioche stitch.” Her version of a poncho caught her eye, and she tossed it to him as she ventured deeper into her closet. “Fair Isle with two colors.”
And on it went.
He followed her into the depths of the cedar closet, holding the precious pieces she’d made by her hand as if he couldn’t bear to set them aside. She pulled out still more projects from her shelves and piled them on his outstretched arms, babbling on about knitting techniques from other places like Spain and Portugal and then droning on about the Irish Moss stitch and how it differed from the Andalusian stitch.
“Becca!”
She stopped herself from pulling out her next example, a honeycomb stitch. “What?”
“Where can I put all these?” he asked, his eyes a stormy gray-green she recognized as desire.
If it hadn’t been for the tension emanating from him and her, she might have laughed. There he stood, all tall, dark man, holding a pile of her knitwear stacked up to his neck.
“On the bed,” she said, her heartbeat so loud in her ears she could barely hear herself.
He disappeared. She took a moment to suck in a huge amount of oxygen and rise from her knees. Goodness, when had she gotten on the floor? Strong hands closed around her shoulders, and Trevor pulled her against his chest. She met the wall of solid muscle and raised her head to look into his beautiful eyes. The heat in them had her insides softening, and then his mouth found hers.
His touch unraveled her, the power and force of it unknown to her—almost as though he was pulling apart the stitches composing her life with the intent to create something new and beautiful.
The hot, hard mouth on hers drove her to new heights of desire, and she found herself pressed against a wall of hand-knit clothes, the textures soft and cushy, a compelling contrast to the hard body moving sinuously against her. She opened her mouth when his tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she was lost in a heat and hunger she’d never imagined. A moan surged up from deep inside her, and his answering groan had her gripping the strong muscles of his biceps to keep anchored.
