by Zara Keane
Blarney Castle surpassed Jayme’s expectations. As Ruairí had said, there wasn’t much left of the interior, but the keep and the outer walls were still intact.
They’d ascended to the top of the castle. To reach the Blarney Stone, one had to lean backwards over the parapet. According to Jayme’s guidebook, many people had died trying to kiss the stone before metal railings were fitted to break any potential falls.
Ruairí was staring at the stone with an expression of terror written across his face. “I’m not leaning back over that… precipice… and kissing a filthy stone.”
“Come on, honey,” she teased. “Just one little kiss.”
“If I do this, it’s because I’m insane or insanely in love,” he muttered underneath his breath.
Jayme’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m kind of hoping it’s the latter.”
His warm brown eyes met hers. “You know how I feel about you.”
“Do I?” Their shared look lingered. She took a deep breath. “We need to talk. About us. About our future.”
“I know we do. I’ve brought a picnic basket for our lunch, but why don’t we go to a restaurant for dinner? We can enjoy our day, then talk in peace over a meal.”
“Sounds good.” The moment of tension passed. “But you’re not getting out of kissing that stone.”
He groaned. “You’re relentless.”
She grinned at him. “Tell you what. You kiss the stone now, and later, I’ll kiss you. Deal?”
Sexual awareness flared in his dark eyes. His gaze trailed down her body, then back to her face. The corners of his mouth twitched. “You drive a hard bargain Dr. King.”
When he leaned back, his shirt inched upward, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of rock hard abs. Her pulse quickened. His lips touched the stone for the briefest second, before he pulled himself back into a sitting position. “Ugh. That was gross.”
“Chicken,” she said, laughing. “Your lips barely touched it.”
He shuddered. “The barest contact was sufficient to confirm my suspicion that the stone is disease-ridden.”
He stood, yanking his shirt back into place. A shame. She’d missed seeing that taut stomach.
“Want to explore the grounds?” He extended his arm, and she slipped her hand back into his.
“Sure,” she said. “I want to see that dolmen you mentioned.”
He led her down stone steps and through the ruined courtyard toward the gardens. The guidebook hadn’t done them justice. They were gorgeous, several little sections just beginning to bloom. Jayme peered at one of the plants. “What a beautiful flower.” She leaned closer. “What a sec… that almost looks like—”
“Wolfsbane,” Ruairí said, pointing to the sign.
“Aconite?” She drew back in alarm. “Wow. They weren’t joking when they named this part of the grounds Poison Garden.”
“No, they weren’t. Hey, if you want to save money on the divorce, mandrake’s over there.” His teasing smile warmed her in spite of the February chill.
She quirked an eyebrow, wavering between annoyance and amusement that he could joke about their marital issues. “I’m a doctor. If I was planning to kill you, I’m pretty sure I could come up with a more subtle poison than mandrake.”
Her tone must have tipped him off that he’d irritated her. He frowned, then said: “I’m sorry, Jayme. It slipped out.”
“Lead me toward this famous portal tomb and I might forgive you.”
“We’re nearly there. Rock Close is up ahead.”
They wandered through the rest of the gardens, eventually reaching the area Ruairí had pointed to.
“Seeing as we kissed the stone,” he said, “we’d better continue our day of superstitions and descend the Wishing Steps backward.”
“The Wishing Steps? How charming.”
“There’s a catch, though.”
She laughed. “Isn’t there always?”
“You have to do it with your eyes shut.”
“In other words, if we manage to get down the steps without falling and breaking our necks, all our wishes will come true?”
He flashed her a wolfish grin. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Come on then. Let’s do it.”
“You have to think of a wish first, but don’t tell me.”
Her wish didn’t require a second’s consideration. Rewinding the clock and changing the choices they’d made a year ago wasn’t feasible, but if the past few days were any indication, rekindling their marriage was still within the realm of the possible. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m ready.”
He took her hand in his and they slowly maneuvered themselves down the steps.
“Oh,” she said, losing her footing. His strong arm broke her fall. Finally, after a couple more near misses, they made it to the bottom of the steps intact.
She sagged against the wall, laughing. “So what did you wish for?”
He smiled. “It’s bad luck to tell you. You going to tell me your wish?”
“I’m superstitious enough not to want to tempt fate.” Their eyes met and time froze.
“Jayme.” His voice was hoarse and thick with longing. He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. His mouth parted, revealing very white, very even teeth. Her breath caught when he leaned in again. This time, she matched him movement for movement, their tongues meshing in an erotic dance. She slipped her hands inside his jacket, kneading the taut muscles beneath his shirt.
“Jayme.” He murmured her name again against her ear. Every hair on her nape stood to attention. One of his hands slipped under her windbreaker. The sensation of him touching her burned through her thin wool sweater. He ran the other hand through her hair, loosening it from its ribbon. It cascaded over her shoulders and down her back.
“Your hair’s longer,” he said, examining it.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah. Definitely. The longer style suits you.” He let the strands fall through his fingers. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
Her cheeks grew warm. “You’re a shameless flatterer, Ruairí MacCarthy.”
“No flattery needed. It’s the truth.” He buried his face in her hair, and the smell of his spicy aftershave sent her hormones into overdrive. “I’ve missed you, Jayme. So very much.”
“You can’t possibly have missed me as much as I’ve missed you.” Her voice broke on the words. She’d have to tell him the truth about why she hadn’t returned his calls. As much as she wanted to bury it in the past, he’d have to know before they could move forward.
His eyes were clouded with emotion. “I can live a reasonably contented life without you in it, Jayme, but something’s always missing. It’s like a big gaping wound that never heals.”
She was shaking with nerves, breathless with anticipation. She leaned into him, smelled the detergent from his shirt. “I was barely going through the motions in New York. I want you back in my life. I don’t know how we’ll swing it, but I want to try.”
He cupped her chin in his palm. “I booked us a hotel nearby. I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want to put you under any pressure. At the very least, they have a great restaurant if we want to have dinner there.”
Her breathing labored, she pulled his head toward her and nibbled his earlobe. “The only dinner I’ll be interested in will come via room service.”
Chapter Eight
THE HOTEL RUAIRÍ had booked was perfect. It reminded Jayme of a manor house in one her favorite Masterpiece Theater series, complete with a four-poster bed.
But while she would normally be enraptured by the hotel’s architecture and decor, all she was interested in right now was getting Ruairí naked.
“It’s been so long,” she murmured, burying her face into his chest and inhaling his clean, male scent. “I’ve probably forgotten how to do it.”
“I doubt that. I haven’t slept with anyone since you, and my body definitely hasn’t forgotten what to do.” He ran his fingers thr
ough her hair, then trailed kisses down her neck, making her gasp in anticipation.
She steeled herself to ask the question that had been nagging her since her arrival in Ballybeg. “Marcella mentioned you were seeing someone named Laura.”
“We hadn’t gotten as far as our first date, never mind sex.” His lips continued their torturous trail. “When you showed up, I canceled. You’re the woman I want.”
The coil of tension in her stomach eased. Had he dated someone in the past year, she couldn’t have held it against him, but it was a relief to know he hadn’t. His fingers roamed over her arms. She gasped at his touch, her skin turning electric. He’d always had the power to turn her on, even after the most colossal row. Their sexual connection had been a major part in their relationship. How important hadn’t become clear until the night he’d left and she’d realized how little she knew about the man she’d married.
He undid the buttons of her shirt and shoved the material off her shoulders to reveal bare skin. When he toyed with her bra strap and teased the skin underneath with his fingertips, her nipples pebbled.
“Ruairí.” She’d have to tell him before he saw her naked. “There’s something—”
“Shh.” He put a finger to her lips. “Not a word.”
In one fluid movement, he undid the clasp of her bra and it fell to the floor.
Taking a deep breath, she eased her panties down her hips and past the pale pink slash across her abdomen.
He registered the scar immediately. “What’s this?” His fingers hovered above the start of the neat scar, still tender even after all these months.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.” The words tumbled out in a breathless rush.
“What happened to you?” His eyes searched hers. “This can’t be an appendix scar. It’s on your left side.”
“No, it wasn’t my appendix.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I had to have a fallopian tube removed.”
Shock turned his face rigid. “My god.” His hands steadied on her shoulders. “Why?”
Now for the fun bit, the part she’d been avoiding. “I had an ectopic pregnancy.”
His face underwent a series of contortions. “You were pregnant?”
She nodded. She could see the wheels in his mind at work, calculating dates. “When did this happen?”
“A few weeks after you flew to Ireland. I must have been in the early stages of pregnancy when you left.”
His face crumpled into an expression of utter devastation. “Oh, no. Jayme. I am so, so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have come over on the next flight.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I needed time to think. I was in shock. I hadn’t known I was pregnant. My periods were always light. When I had one that was even lighter than normal, I didn’t think anything was amiss. It wasn’t until the pain started that I realized something was very wrong. Even then, I assumed it was a stomach problem—an ulcer or something similar. When the ER doctor told me I was pregnant, I was stunned. Physicians make the worst patients, and we’re usually lousy at diagnosing ourselves.”
His voice broke when he spoke. “There was nothing they could do to save the baby?”
She shook her head. “An ectopic pregnancy isn’t viable.”
“Will you be able—” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you.”
“The answer to that is… I don’t know. I’m down one fallopian tube, and I had an infection afterward.” A tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it away. “I might not be able to conceive naturally.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He hugged her close. His tender touch was too much for her fragile self-control. She began to cry in earnest, big fat tears and proper sobs. “Shh,” he whispered. “Let it all out.”
“After… after it happened, I bottled it up. I was numb. I forced myself not to think about it for months. I went back to work and went through the motions, ignoring my tendency to self-medicate with wine as soon as I got home. Then one day, I broke down. My parents checked me into a clinic for a few weeks to recover.”
“I should have been there for you. Why don’t you hate me for not being there?”
“I don’t hate you because I didn’t tell you. I chose not to tell you. I’m sorry if this sounds cruel, but I don’t regret it. I think I needed that time alone. It allowed me to concentrate on my own grief without worrying about how you were coping. Of course, if I’d known about your mother, I’d have gotten in touch with you ages ago.”
“And if I’d known—” He shook his head. “We could go round in circles with this, couldn’t we?” He stroked her cheek tenderly.
“Perhaps it would be easier if I did hate you. I don’t know. What happened with… with the baby… wasn’t your fault. We’re both to blame for the fight that split us up. Yes, you should have told me the truth about your family, but perhaps you were right. Maybe I wouldn’t have listened. Maybe I would have reacted like a snob if I knew your dad and brother had done time. I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t want to know.”
“It doesn’t matter, Jayme.” His deep voice broke with emotion. “You’re here now, and we’re talking. I should have trusted you. I should have told you the whole story—every goddamn sordid detail. You deserved to know the background of the man you were about to marry.”
She buried her face into his chest, inhaled his spicy scent. “Make love to me, Ruairí.”
“Are you sure you want to?” He stroked her hair, making her shiver with anticipation. “We could just cuddle if you’d prefer.”
“No, I need you to make love to me. I want to feel like a woman again, not a sexless, potentially infertile shell. I’m not looking to try to get pregnant. I want to… feel. It’s like I’ve been numb for months.”
“Okay.” He stroked her upper thighs, kneading the precise points he knew she was the most sensitive. “If you want to stop at any point, tell me.”
“I won’t want to stop.” She tugged at his shirt. “This. Off.”
His fingers flew over the buttons, but every second was one too long for her. She slipped her hands under his shirt, massaging his skin, pulling at his nipples.
“Feck.” He gave the buttons up as a lost cause and pulled his shirt over his head.
Hers fingers wandered to his belt. When she brushed against his groin, he groaned. “I want you so much, Jayme. I feel like I’m going to explode.”
“I sincerely hope you do. Just hold off for a few minutes, okay?”
She undid his jeans, one button at a time. He gasped when she stroked his hardness, straining against the confines of his underwear.
She nibbled his lip. His breath came in staccato gasps.
When she pulled his jeans down over his hips, he wriggled himself free from his underpants.
“Wow.” She ran a fingertip down his silky length, careful not to graze him with her sharp nail. She sank to her knees and teased the tip with her tongue, registered his sharp intake of breath. She grew more adventurous, slowly wandering down his stiff shaft, feeling the smooth skin against her tongue. He tasted salty, masculine. She drew her tongue back up in slow, circular movements.
“Jayme,” he gasped. “You’re torturing me.”
“Hmm?” She pulsated her tongue around the tip of his erection, making him groan with pleasure.
“I want you on your back,” he growled.
“What are you going to do to get me there?” she teased.
“You’ll find out.” In one fluid movement, he flipped her onto her back, strategically aiming her head for the pillow. She laughed out loud. It was a trick he’d perfected on their honeymoon when she’d complained she always landed between both pillows rather than on one.
He stroked her inner thighs again, each movement sending volts of pleasure skittering across her skin. She shoved his hand higher, positioning him directly between her legs. He stroked her clit, slowly at first, in long, drawn-out circular movements.
She gave a mo
ue of impatience and applied pressure to his hand until he hit the right tempo. “Ah,” she sighed. “So good.”
A few minutes later, he flipped her on her front and pulled her into a kneeling position.
“What?” she teased. “You cruel man.”
“I did tell you,” he whispered into her ear, “that I’d stop anytime you wanted me to. You asking me to stop?”
His erection teased her entrance, making her gasp.
“Hell, no. If you stop now, I’ll get my revenge.”
His laughter reverberated against her ear. “In that case…”
One thrust later, he was inside her. He gave her a moment to grow accustomed to his size, and then began to move. As if on cue, her hips met him thrust for thrust, each more exhilarating than its predecessor.
The pressure inside her built to a crescendo until she was shook by a tsunami of pleasure.
She was still getting her breath back when she felt him come.
Afterward, they collapsed onto their pillows, spent and exhausted.
“That was… amazing,” she said through a yawn. And then blissful sleep enveloped her.
The next morning, Ruairí woke to find Jayme propped up on her pillow, staring at him. The sight of her flushed face and sleep-tousled hair warmed him to the core.
“I’m still in love with you, Ruairí,” she blurted, and then turned even redder.
He stroked her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. “And I’m still in love with you.”
“So what are we going to do?” One breast peeked out from beneath the sheet. “Is your heart set on staying in Ireland?”
“The only thing my heart is set on is staying with you. Would you consider living in Ireland for a few months? If you didn’t like it, we’d go back to New York.”
Her brow creased. “I’ve thought about my possibilities. I could look for someone to cover my job for a few months. I’m reluctant to sell my share of the practice until we’re more certain where we want to live long-term.”
