Distracted by his thoughts, he lost control of the vehicle, and the front end swerved to the right. He turned the wheel and eased his foot down on the brakes, the friction from the wheels over ice sending a high-pitched whir echoing across the frosted countryside. The back of the car jerked to the left and sent them skidding into a snowy embankment.
“Bollocks!” He turned the engine over and nothing happened. He tried again, and again. Still nothing.
She stirred but somehow neither the commotion nor his swearing woke her.
Muttering under his breath, he poked her. “Sandra,” he whispered.
No movement.
He put his hat on and buttoned up his coat. Blizzard-like conditions and bitter night air–he didn’t want to freeze to death out there, and it’d take a half hour to trek to the castle.
“Ya gotta wake up. We’ve got twenty minutes of light left—if we don’t hurry, we’re in big trouble.”
“Hmm, what?” She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Are we there already?”
“Me car’s dead.” He got a torch out of the glove box and maneuvered around black ice to open the door for Sandra. “We gotta walk the rest of the way.”
“I ain’t bloody well walking anywhere, donkey ass idiot. I’d rather die in the snow.” She shivered and shrank farther under Amy’s blanket.
“Ya get ya cockney ass out the car now. If we keep a steady pace, we’ll be by a fire sipping hot toddies in no time. Ya have me promise, so ya do.” He tugged his hat down to cover his ears and tried to coax her out with a smile.
She nodded and edged out of the car. “What about my bags?”
“Ya want me ta drag suitcases through a foot of snow? Are ya kidding me?”
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.” She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and muttered something under her breath while knotting the blanket around her head to protect herself from the elements.
She headed to the boot of the car, and the almost-invisible black ice. He reached for her wrist to warn her. “Leave it, the ground is—”
She went tits over arse, and pulled him along for the ride. He landed on her softness, his head nuzzled into her neck.
“Argh, my ankle,” she yelped.
“Just great! Is it twisted? Ya can’t walk with a twisted ankle.” He lifted himself, reaching for the car and expecting to find cold metal at his touch. Instead, warm flesh greeted him. He sucked in a breath and glanced where he had gripped. Yes, most definitely a leg, a most beautiful leg. The milky whiteness of her skin glowed through the thick opaque stockings she wore. Probably silky smooth, too. He was certain she’d knee him if he traced his hand down her calf to find out, or worse, to the juncture of her thighs. He growled and scrambled to standing. The car door caught in the wind and swung open, knocking him back down to her. He landed with a thud, mouth to mouth with Sandra.
He stilled, unsure of how to react. He willed himself to stand, screamed in his head to do anything but kiss her. God damned impulsive nature always got him in trouble. He drew back to see her expression. She gazed at him, her pupils dilated. With no gentle introductions, she parted his mouth with her tongue and explored. Her heat emanated through the thick layers of clothing and sent blood pumping fast into his groin. Hot. She roamed his back, digging her nails in, and wrapped her legs around him. She murmured, pulling back a touch. Before he could fathom what to do next, she threw her hands between them and pushed at his chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He brushed blonde wisps from her forehead. “Ya confused, did ya bang ya head and lose ya senses?”
“Get the fuck off me!”
“Charmin’.”
“Dirty bastard, taking advantage of a damsel in distress.”
“Ya a beautiful lass, and I couldn’t help meself?” He shrugged. Sure, he knew his words were pathetic, but bringing up the fact she had thrown herself at him didn’t seem like the gentlemanly thing to do.
“Attractive? Yeah, sure. A young stud like you would be interested in an old fogey like me. Absolutely sounds credible.”
He tsked, stood, and pointed south, eager to switch the conversation around. “Ya coming or what?”
“I can wait.”
“The hell ya can. Come on.” He was beginning to think he’d made a huge mistake letting Madame Eve pick his holiday companion. Oh hell. Whether he liked it or not, he had to get her to his home in one piece.
He hooked one hand beneath her knees, and the other under her arms, cradling her.
“Get off me, perv.”
“Bollocks, do ya want me ta help ya, or would ya rather I leave ya here while I go get help?”
She nodded. “Okay, I’ll come with you, but you’re not carrying me. You’re never touching me again.” Her lips puckered and an irresistible urge pulled at him to kiss her again. Sucker for punishment, he leaned in but she pushed him back. “No.”
“Fine.” In one swift movement, he scooped her up and stood. “Ya need my help. Even if you’re not going ta admit it, I’m still going ta damn well make sure ta help ya as much as I’m able.”
She shivered then nuzzled into his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’ll let you, but only because I’m cold. No funny business, okay?”
Each step challenged him to battle the defeat his muscles screamed at him to take, and he fought hard against the blistering snow and whipping winds as he carried her all the way to Ballygalley Castle. She’d gone limp ten minutes in and become dead weight. Not once did he even think about leaving her out there, or waking her to make her plow through the snow herself. No way. This woman needed to keep her ankle up, or she’d be swelling into next week; his son would be back by then from staying at his Gran’s cottage, and he’d have more explaining to do than he would like.
He climbed the grand steps and pulled on the bell string to announce his presence. Seconds later, the large wooden double doors opened, and Laura, the house cleaner/cook, greeted him. He was darn glad of the warmth grazing his cheeks, but he’d be happier once his arms were free again.
“You both look freezing, Mr. Draighean.” She patted his back, sprinkling snowflakes to the floor. “I’ll burn some wood and get some hot water running.”
“I think she’s passed out, Laura.” He maneuvered into the grand hallway, careful not to hit Sandra’s head or feet then carried her up the stairs. Laura followed behind.
“Did she have an accident and bump her head? Should I send for a doctor?”
“No need, the lass is just exhausted. I don’t think a doctor could get ta us in this weather even if he wanted ta anyway. No, we’ll wait ’til morning before we decide if she needs medical help.”
“Good idea.”
“I left the lass’s bags in the car. Be a love and fetch some of ya stuff she can borrow for the morning? And she’ll need toiletries.”
“Of course, Mr. Draighean. I might have some old clothes from my skinny days packed in the bottom of my wardrobe. I’ll go look.”
“I’m taking her ta the Rose Room.”
“As you wish.” Laura scurried off toward her living quarters on the lower floor.
Sandra weighed no more than eight, maybe eight and half stone, but his arms were numb from holding her so long. He cursed her for having booked the smallest room on the third floor rather than one of the featured rooms on the website. No heating, the smallest bed, and tucked in the attic; she’d hear mice and goodness knew what else. Stupid woman. He had plenty of other nicer rooms closer to reception and much warmer. If he’d had his way, he’d have changed her booking. Laura, damn Laura, insisted they keep to her wishes.
He flung the door to her room open and laid her on the freshly made bed. Maneuvering her forward, he removed her snow-saturated coat and was relieved to discover dry clothes. How she slept through all his handling was amazing. Her shoes next. He unlaced her ankle boots and slid them from her feet. A shiver raced down his spine, reminding him the castle was nippy at night. He ar
ranged a blanket over his guest, his gaze stalling at her full breasts and their erect peaks. Tucking her in, he accidentally skimmed one with his touch. Hard, tempting. He wanted to vice her nipples between his teeth and taste her flesh. Get a grip.
She shivered, and his concern for her shook him out of his need to wake her up…or jerk off. He grabbed a cashmere comforter from a nearby chaise lounge and threw it over her. The thin layer wouldn’t be enough, though; another hour or so and her teeth would chatter.
He stacked up wood and worked at getting the fire blazing then drew the velvet drapes his wife had chosen. She’d picked everything for this room. Yet, for the first time in such a long while, his wife was the last thing on his mind.
Soft flickering light skated over Sandra’s apricot colored skin and shimmered in her blonde hair. Her lips parted, and he leaned in to kiss her—the pull irresistible, the desire hard to fight. He loved the firecracker in her, and yearned to feel her passion and anger fire him up.
The floorboards creaked, alerting him to Laura’s presence. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Our guest, Sandra, isn’t she beautiful? Do ya think she’s the one?”
“How many is that now, sir? If you ask me, you’ve met a dozen women who’d be lucky to have you….” She piled a change of clothes and some toiletries on a chair and swiftly crept into the hallway.
He followed. “Me first with Madame Eve, though.”
“Pft, your father would roll in his grave if he knew you were turning his hotel into your own personal brothel.” Laura meant well, he was sure, but at least she was able to snuggle with her soul mate every night—someone to make her smile when she was down, to rub her tummy when she was sick. How could she ever understand how he felt? The loneliness would drown him if he didn’t find someone lovely to fill his home with laughter and love and passion.
“She’s not ta find out who I am, do ya hear me? Or I won’t know for sure…if she is the one.”
“As you wish, Mr. Draighean.”
Chapter Three
A shiver snaked up Sandra’s legs. Cold and wet, it weaved into her tummy and unsettled her. She tossed. She turned. She kicked her legs and snuggled farther under the blanket. The hard mattress made it near impossible for her to get comfortable, and the thin blanket was inadequate to warm her.
This wasn’t her bed.
She snapped her eyelids open and sat. From the heavy drapes, to the battered old floorboards and murals, her surroundings told her she was at the castle; she recognized them from the photos on Ballygalley’s website. A red tint from a dying fire in the stone surround glowed and flickered around her, casting dancing shadows across the walls and over the bed covered in pretty floral linens.
The scent of roses wafted around her and disappeared, which was odd because she couldn’t see any fresh blooms in the room. She sniffed her way around the bed until she found the source; the blanket draped over her. A faint flowery scent lingered, delicate, pretty. She made note to ask housekeeping which fabric softener they used.
Stretching out her arms, she crossed the room to poke the flames back to life. Her ankle throbbed on her way to the mantel.
She tried to recall how she might have arrived here, and how she’d injured herself. Last she remembered, she was in Stuffy Head’s car. Had he carried her up the stairs? Or was she so tired she’d forgotten stumbling up here herself? Her chest tightened, and her pulse quickened.
“I bloody kissed him, had second thoughts, gave him what for, and blamed all my insecurities on him. Great big donkey balls with fricken jingle bells on.” She threw herself on the bed, face down, and let out a scream muffled by the blankets.
Still, it could be worse. She could still be waiting on some side road, snowed into a stranger’s car by herself. That would have been terrible. Sandra shuddered and tried to take in her surroundings to forget about her shame. Dry humping some country dude almost half my age in the middle of a snowstorm. How classy, Sandra Dunst.
From the huge four poster bed twice the size of her king back in London to the pale blue walls decorated with a mural of a beautiful lady with flowing blonde hair on the wall above a stone fireplace, feminine vibes sang out from every crevice and surface in the room. In addition, the little bay window overlooked the ocean.
The day’s agenda consisted of relaxing, reading, and a hearty meal in the hotel’s restaurant. Tomorrow, however, would be more adventurous; an evening with an Irishman sure to set her heart on fire. At least that was what the 1Night Stand invitation promised.
Shaun, the owner of Bell’s Irish Pub and her boss, must’ve had the whole thing planned from the get go. They’d egged her on to stay in this particular castle first because the date was to take place here. She’d give them what for when she got back. And then some.
She picked up a jogging suit someone had left folded on a chair, size ten. A size eight herself, the outfit would be baggy but comfortable. Hoping she’d get her own clothes back soon enough, she dressed in a snap—the morning air nipped at her naked flesh. Fresh and clean, she shuffled to the bay window and glanced out at the promised views. Mad ocean waves crashed ashore, and the bloke she’d snogged last night stood at the edge of the cliff, a black dog beside him. Hotheaded Irishman. She’d seen her share of those, working in an Irish pub. This one was different, although his brogue affected her the same way—wobbly knees and a flutter of the heart at every syllable he spoke. The guy was tall, brooding, ever so handsome…and no doubt dangerous because of her weak spot for a silver-tongued man. A grown woman—of her age—swooning after some guy almost young enough to be her son. Sure, she’d lusted plenty of times over the fictional characters in her books, but not in reality. Nope. It was bad enough she had to get her head around a blind date for the next evening, never mind analyzing the attraction she felt for this young hottie Irish gamekeeper or whatever he was…ah, she’d “go ta shed” with him any day.
Oh. No. Wait. Lady Chatterley’s Lover was a Yorkshireman, not Irish. Duh. It was summer, not in the middle of a snowstorm. Meh, I should leave the romancing to the experts because I obviously suck at it.
How was she ever going to face him without blushing or shaking his arm off while thanking him for last night’s journey?
With him outside, it was a good time to go down for breakfast. She could have her morning cup of tea in peace instead of finger-pointing and explanations and hot flushes.
She set about finding the dining area on the ground floor.
Down and down she stepped, following the narrow winding staircase. Roughly plastered walls, painted in a warm jade color. Beneath her feet, bare wood stained a deep dark brown. There were no numbers on any of the doors leading from the curved landings along the winding steps. She thought it odd but dismissed it; door signs didn’t exactly go with the lush oldie-worldly castle décor. Reaching the ground floor, she found herself to the right of reception.
The place was desolate, with no signs of life except for the fire blazing away in the adjacent common room filled with billowy sofas and bookcases stacked with old fashioned hardback books.
She traced her hand over a row and took a deep breath. Although she loved the idea of having all those books on one little device, she still loved the smell of printed stories. Age enriched the musty paper scent and reminded her of when she was a little girl in the library with her mother. A green bound book caught her attention. A Christmas Carol. Her thoughts rested on her grandchildren back in London. No doubt, her daughter was miffed her free babysitter had escaped to Ireland for the holidays, but Sandra did miss those little ones. Then she spotted the goodies. Her favorites, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and Gone with the Wind. Impressed with the selection, she decided she’d find out if she could borrow one of the books to take to her room after dinner. She intended to do nothing but sit by the fire and read…and read some more before setting off for her next stop in a few days—Dunluce Castle—a good fifty mile
s along the coast road. Of course her peaceful plans had been changed slightly with her Christmas date, but that wouldn’t take too much of her reading time away. Not with her luck with men.
The scent of baking wafted up her nostrils. Fresh bread. “Yum.” She followed the heavenly aroma to a door at the back of the common room. There she found the dining area, warmed by a roaring fire. Above the thick stone fireplace hung a painting of some man or another with flaming red hair and a scowl. Something about him seemed familiar, yet not. Creepy. She’d have to turn her back to him during mealtimes.
The place was void of festive spirit, not a speck of decorations anywhere. She’d have to wait to indulge in her holiday tradition of reading by the tree with a hot toddy. Maybe the next castle would be livelier.
She scuttled in and sat near a window, her back to the ugly painting so she could admire a beautiful view instead, albeit it one covered in a blanket of brilliant white snow. Wind danced around the evergreens and whistled around the walls of her winter paradise. In the distance, a wee stone cottage sat by itself, a little boy building a snowman by the front door. Had it snowed like this back in London? Were her grandkids sledding through the estate and playing games? She’d have been black and blue from snowballs by now. She chuckled. Guess it’s not Christmas without some injury or other. A bruised ankle, I can deal with. But no more, you hear me, St Nick?
A clatter came from a back door, and faint sounds of a woman swearing. Cupboard doors banged and slammed, and all round kitchen in mayhem noises. She eased the door open and popped her head in. Expecting to find high-end stainless steel appliances and heaps of workspace, typical of a hotel kitchen, instead she saw large arbor ovens, cottage style pottery sinks, and gleaming pans hanging from the walls. And freshly baked bread and mince pies all lined up in a row. As if she’d walked onto the set for the old country TV show, Darling Buds of May.
“Hello, I see there are no other guests around. Does this mean I’m too late, or is breakfast still serving?”
Irish Kisses Boxed Set Page 12
