by Mari Carr
Wild Irish Christmas
Mari Carr
Blush sensuality level: This is a sensual romance (may have explicit love scenes, but not erotic in frequency or type)
Wild Irish, Book Eight
“To Conall Brannagh.”
Ewan took the bottle from his father. “Who?”
“Conall Brannagh,” Patrick repeated. “If your mother had chosen him over me, none of us would be here tonight.”
It’s Christmas Eve, and the Collins siblings have given their father a precious gift. All seven have gathered together to spend the night in his apartment above the family pub, the warm, loving home where Patrick and Sunday raised their large brood.
You’ve witnessed each child find their happy-ever-after. Now gather ’round the tree and share a bottle of Jameson with the Collins family while Patrick shares the story of how he won the heart of Sunday, his true love, his soul mate…and the mother of his seven Wild Irish.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Wild Irish Christmas
ISBN 9781419938214
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wild Irish Christmas Copyright © 2011 Mari Carr
Edited by Kelli Collins
Cover design by Syneca
Electronic book publication December 2011
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for, author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Wild Irish Christmas
Mari Carr
Dedication
This story is dedicated to my family. I couldn’t have written about the Collins clan if you hadn’t taught me about unconditional love, how to pass the bottle, and the importance of laughter.
Monday’s Child
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath day,
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
~Traditional nursery rhyme
Chapter One
“Holy mother of sweet divine Jerusalem,” Patrick Collins muttered.
Riley laughed at him. “Oh come on, Pop, it’ll be fun. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
Patrick shook his head. “Riley Collins Young, I cannot imagine what possessed you to come up with this harebrained scheme, but I’m fairly certain the spirit of the holidays had nothing to do with it.”
“Actually, Pop, I have to disagree,” Tris added. He lifted a fifth of Jameson Irish Whiskey. “Spirits had everything to do with it.”
Keira grinned. “We’re not opening that bottle until later. You guys start taking nips and we’ll never get the tree decorated.”
Tris gave her a dirty look. “Whiskey might make that chore bearable.”
“I said I wasn’t fooling with a tree this year,” Patrick argued. “Didn’t think it was worth the fuss since we’re celebrating Christmas day at Keira’s house.”
“You need a tree, Pop. Otherwise you’ll turn into Scrooge.” Teagan kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Patrick put his hands on his hips. “What on earth do your families think of this? You have kids. You should be with them on Christmas morning.”
Killian raised his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. Lily isn’t due for three more months. Justin’s looking after her.”
Riley laughed. “My sweet little baby Sunday isn’t even a year old yet. She doesn’t have a clue what tomorrow is. Although Bubbles and I did manage to convince Aaron to play Santa this year. I figure the image of Aaron in a white beard riding his motorcycle down Keira’s driveway with a sack of presents on his back should ensure Sunday’s in therapy for years to come.”
Keira kissed Patrick on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Pop. We’re just delaying opening the pressies a bit at my house. I warned my two that they were going to eat Christmas breakfast with their father and wait for me to get home before they start tearing into Santa’s deliveries. To make up for it, I let them open a present tonight before I left. Will and I got them the Wii they’ve been begging for. That should tide them over until I get home tomorrow.”
Patrick stepped out of the way as Sean and Ewan huffed upstairs with a large white pine. Teagan grinned at her younger brothers. “Sky and my two rugrats are staying with Natalie tonight. Ewan’s hoping it will spark a maternal instinct.”
Ewan gave his sister an exasperated look. “I thought that was going to be our little secret?”
“Seems like you’ve thought of everything.” Patrick watched Sean and Ewan carry the tree to its usual spot.
“Just like the trees we had when we were kids,” Sean announced, holding it upright while waiting for Riley to put the tree stand in place.
Patrick shook his head in amazement. He’d been feeling a bit lonely lately, but he thought he’d hidden it from his family. Obviously not. His kids were determined to give him a Christmas morning just like they’d celebrated in the good old days. They had every intention of spending Christmas Eve with him in the apartment where they’d grown up.
He couldn’t think of a better gift. The dark cloud he’d been living under the past few months lifted. He cleared his throat, trying not to let them see the glaze of tears gathering in his eyes. He had the best damn kids in the whole world.
For the next hour, the apartment was ablaze with light and noise and laughter as they decorated the tree, sharing the memories attached to each ornament—most handmade by them when they were younger.
Tris stealthily snuck the bottle of Jameson to him as they worked. Patrick took a quick nip and handed it back. He happily played along as his sons tried to hide the fact they were drinking from their older sister—who knew perfectly well what they were doing. Patrick caught Keira rolling her eyes at him and he winked.
Once the tree was set up, Sean hit the switch and turned on the colorful flickering lights. Teagan grabbed her guitar and led them in The Twelve Days of Christmas. Sean and Ewan cleverly managed to change the lyrics, loudly singing bawdy lines over the real ones. By the ending refrain, they’d all ditched the true words and were singing the most irreverent version of the song ever sung.
Finally, they pulled out the gifts they’d purchased, placing them beneath the tree. Because the family was so large, they’d long ago adopted the tradition of drawing names so everyone didn’t go broke trying to buy gifts. Patrick noticed that didn’t seem to be the case this year.
“That’s quite a lot of presents,” he remarked.
Killian plopped down on the couch and lifted his feet, resting them on the coffee table. “Riley’s idea again. She said it sucked getting older because her pile of Christmas presents continued to get smaller every year.”
“All I said,” Riley interjected, sitting next to Killian and lifting her feet next to his, “was I wanted to buy a gift for all my brothers and sisters this year and I wanted them to shower me with presents as well.”
“And,” Tris added, grabbing the bottle of whiskey, “since it’s only the eight of us here in the morning, that’ll make it easier to watch everyone open their gifts. Fewer people around the tree and no little ones running all over the place, asking to go next.”
Patrick claimed his recliner as the rest of his kids pulled up chairs or grabbed pillows and plopped down on the floor around the tree. “I still can’t believe you’re all spending the night here.”
Keira grinned. “We’re here because it’s the holidays, Pop. You haven’t been yourself the last few months. We worry.”
Patrick grasped his oldest daughter’s hand. “I’m a tired, old fool. I suppose I lost my way for a bit. Let the daily grind get me down. You crazy kids have reminded me what’s important in life with this gesture. It’s a lovely gift.”
Keira squeezed his hand. “We love you. It’s been years since the eight of us were alone together in this apartment…all busy with kids and jobs. We thought it was time we took a night to reconnect. To remember where we came from.”
“Oh,” Sean added, “and a word to the wise, Pop. Next year, when the girls ask you what you want for Christmas, say a flashy tie or an animal-print Snuggie or some bull like that. Don’t say, ‘I only want you all to be happy and healthy’. Leaves too much room for interpretation—especially from Riley.”
Riley picked up a pillow and lobbed it at her younger brother’s head. “Way to ruin Keira’s sappy speech, smartass.”
“Language, Riley,” Patrick said, the words a familiar joke more than a true rebuke.
“Sorry, Pop.” Her face told him she wasn’t sorry at all.
Tris lifted the whiskey, proposing a quick toast. “We’re here, Pop, because we’re family. To the Collins clan.” He took a swig from the bottle and passed it to Teagan, who followed suit with her own cheers.
Patrick wasn’t sure what it said about his character that he was proud of the way all seven of his offspring could hold their whiskey.
As the bottle moved from hand to hand, they each offered up words of thanks or wishes for the New Year. When it reached Patrick, he lifted the bottle and proposed a toast he hadn’t used since the last Christmas he’d celebrated with his wife, Sunday.
“To Conall Brannagh.”
Ewan took the bottle from his father. “Who?”
“Conall Brannagh,” Patrick repeated. “If your mother had chosen him over me, none of us would be here tonight.”
Sean leaned forward, a definite gleam of interest in his eyes. “So you had some competition for Mom, eh? I never knew that.”
Keira grabbed a bag of pretzels. “I didn’t either. Was Mom in love with him?”
Teagan looked at Patrick. “I always thought you were her first love.”
Patrick smiled at his daughter. “I was her last love, Teagan. That’s a much better spot to claim. Besides, I don’t know if it’s fair to say she loved Conall, though he certainly turned the women’s heads. What’s the word you girls use for handsome men? Dreamy?”
Riley laughed. “Um…yeah, not in this decade. I definitely don’t use the word dreamy to describe Aaron.”
“Then what would you say?” Pat asked.
“He’s hot. Totally doable.”
Killian turned to look at his younger sister and shook his head. “Jesus. How are we related?”
“Dreamy works for me, Pop,” Teagan said quickly.
Patrick looked at his kids and silently marveled at how different they were. Somehow, miraculously, their unique qualities meshed perfectly, creating an amazing family.
Ewan, always the steady one, hadn’t been distracted by the asides. “So Mom thought this Conall was dreamy?”
“All the girls in Killarney thought Conall was handsome, but he only had eyes for Sunday. Not that I could blame him. Your mother was a beauty, with that long dark hair and those crystal-blue eyes. She caught every man’s attention.”
“But you didn’t fall in love with her because of her looks, right?” Keira asked.
“Och, Lord no. While Sunday’s face was pleasing, it was her heart, so kind and compassionate, that I found attractive. That’s what captured me by my hand and—pardon the expression—balls and kept me holding on to her for dear life.”
“So what was the story with this Conall guy?” Tris asked.
“Well now, that is a tale.” Patrick leaned back and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift to a different place, a different time.
“I was working on my family’s sheep farm during the day while tending bar at Scully’s Pub every night. I was a young buck of twenty when Sunday, who was just nineteen, moved to Killarney to live with her aunt. Scully hired her to sing in the pub and from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I was lost…”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Put the horse back in the stall there, laddie. You’ve work to do,” Scully chastised in his deep, gravelly voice. Patrick scowled at the all-knowing look from his boss.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Patrick mumbled.
Scully chuckled. “You’ve been sporting a boner in those pants ever since our new singer took the stage. Never seen you so distracted in your work. This pub only makes money if the bartender is serving drinks. Tuck your cock away and start pouring.”
Patrick flushed, forcing his gaze from the stage and going back to work. It was hard to argue with Scully when he was right. He’d seen the new girl in town a few times over the past couple of months. They’d just been passing glances, but he hadn’t been able to erase her lovely face from his mind. More than a few of his mates had made bawdy comments about her, all of them lusting after Old Lady MacKenna’s pretty niece.
He managed to do his job the rest of the night, only sneaking four thousand and twelve glances at the beautiful woman on stage. Her voice enthralled him. She sang sweeter than Joni Mitchell and he was awed by her talent with the guitar. Her dark hair hung in long waves that cascaded over her delicate shoulders. More than once she captured his gaze, making him believe she was singing just to him.
She’d won over the entire crowd by the time she wrapped up the evening with a rousing version of Whiskey in a Jar when Scully announced last call. As the regulars stumbled out, headed for home, she approached the bar.
“I’m Sunday MacKenna.” She claimed a stool across from him.
“Patrick Collins. How about a drink? You must be thirsty after all that singing.”
“I’d love a red ale.”
He poured the drink, grateful for his steady hands. He wasn’t sure why but his heart was suddenly racing, his palms sweaty. He’d never let a woman get under his skin like this—so fast, so completely. One evening listening to her pretty voice and he was ready to pledge himself to her forever. It was a foolish sentiment, and certainly a new one for him.
“I’ve seen you around town,” she said. “My aunt says you work on your family’s farm.”
He nodded. “I do.”
“And then you tend bar here all night?” she asked.
“Yep. That’s me. A regular workaholic.”
She took a sip of her ale as Scully came behind the bar. “I’m heading home, Pat. You finish the cleaning and lock up behind you, eh?”
“Sure.” Patrick was surprised by his boss’ early departure. Scully was always the last one out of the pub each night. He caught Scully’s quick wink—the wily man was playing matchmaker, giving him a chance to be alone with Sunday.
Patrick smiled. He’d have to thank his boss tomorrow.
Scully said his good nights to Sunday, complimenting her singing and promising to add more tables to accommodate all the new customers she was bound to bring in.
Once they were alone, Sunday looked at him. Patrick had never been the recipient of such a thorough examination. He stared back, equally as enthralled. He felt as if he was a blind man seeing for the very first time. He wondered if she felt the same connection.
“Why do you work so hard, Patrick Collins?”
No one had ever asked him that before. It was simply expected that he do his chores on the family farm, while Scully proclaimed him a born barman and assumed he worked at the pub because he loved it.
What no one in his family realized was—Patrick had a plan, a dream for his future that didn’t include sheep or even Ireland. He took one look into her bonny blue eyes and revealed what—until he’d met Sunday—had been his deepest desire. “I’m saving up enough money to leave Ireland. I want to move to America. Scully has an older brother who lives in Maryland who’s hoping to retire soon. He’s agreed to hire me as a bartender while letting me gradually buy the business. One day soon, I’m going to get out of Killarney. I’m going to be my own boss in a pub in America.”
He hadn’t intended to share so much. Most young men he knew dreamed of moving away from this small Irish town, dreaming of a better life somewhere else. Very few of them ever managed to make it more than a mile away from their birth home. They continued to toil all day on the farms while drinking away their wages at the pubs each night. What if Sunday thought he was one of those wishy-washy dreamers?
