by Deb Stover
"What's peat?" Jacob's brow furrowed as he stared at the glowing fire.
"Grass, sort of." Maggie ruffled Jacob's hair, then dropped to the floor and stretched her long legs out in front of her. "A peat fire will last much longer than wood, too."
Bridget liked Maggie almost as much as she liked Fiona. Why couldn't Riley be more like the female members of his family? Well, she didn't really care what he thought of her, but she did care what he thought of Jacob.
Seated before the fire in her rocking chair with her ailing foot propped on pillows, Fiona said, "Riley, fetch me the picture albums, please."
Bridget saw his reluctance. His gaze drifted from his momma to her, and she saw a flash of something indefinable in his expression before he looked at Fiona again and nodded. A moment later, he dropped three huge albums on the coffee table.
"Give me the red one there," Fiona said, pointing at the largest one. Riley placed it gently in his mother's lap, and she motioned for Bridget and Jacob to come closer.
Standing behind the older woman's chair, Bridget noticed the faint scent of rose water wafting up from her hair. She was a tidy woman, with her hair pinned into a neat bun at her nape and her simple cotton dress meticulously pressed. Fiona leafed through several pages of baby pictures, then paused, staring down at a black and white photo of a boy who appeared to be near Jacob's age.
"Is that Culley?" Bridget asked, bending forward to touch the corner of the print. "Look, Jacob."
"Aye, that'll be Culley at seven." Fiona reached up and patted Jacob's cheek. "There's your da, lad." She looked over her shoulder and smiled at Bridget. "Do you see it? The resemblance?"
Bridget's eyes burned and she blinked. The only photo she had of Culley was the Polaroid the lady at the motel had taken of them when they'd checked in for their honeymoon. Bridget hadn't looked at that photo in years, but now she smiled in remembrance. She really had loved Culley Mulligan, and now she regretted the years of resenting him. Of course, she'd had no way of knowing about his accident. Even so, she should've known somehow that he wouldn't have simply abandoned her. Hindsight is cheap, Bridget.
Clearing her throat, she said, "Jacob looks just like him."
"Aye, the spittin' image," Fiona said with a sigh. The older woman looked across the room at her son. "Do you see it, too, Riley?"
He glanced up from the fire, his hand resting on the mantel near an antique clock. His only response was a slight lift to his shoulder, then he turned his gaze back to the fire.
Maggie gave a short laugh. "He'll not be admitting a thing, Mum, and you know it."
"A body can't deny what's right in front of his face," Fiona said, returning her attention to the album.
Bridget remembered that Mr. Larabee had said Riley refused to believe she'd married Culley and given birth to his son. The mere notion that anyone would believe she could lie about such a thing made her bristle like a porcupine, but she bit her cheek to silence her comments. Instead, she placed a protective hand on her son's shoulder and looked down at the album in her mother-in-law's lap.
Riley Mulligan's opinion didn't really matter.
Fiona's did.
As long as Bridget kept that straight in her mind, she could handle anything Riley threw her way. She glanced up at him again, studying his profile as he scowled down at the fire. And, somehow, she knew he would do everything in his power to make her feel unwelcome and untrusted. Strangely, the lack of trust hurt most—like cutting your finger with a dull paring knife.
She noticed Fiona lingering over a photo of a boy and man standing in the meadow with the black castle looming in the background. "Is that Culley and his daddy?" Bridget asked.
"No, that'll be Riley and his da." Fiona touched the man's image with the tip of her finger and didn't move for several minutes. "Just before..."
"Don't, Ma," Riley whispered without looking at them. "Please."
"Riley, you can't keep pretendin' it never happened." Fiona closed the album and released a long, slow breath. "Then again, as stubborn as you be, maybe you can."
Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about that. Bridget drew a deep breath and gripped her fists so tightly her nails cut half moons into her palms. She should not and would not allow Riley Mulligan to spoil this for her. She glanced at her son. For them...
Hours later, after they'd looked through all the albums, Riley still stood staring at the fire, and Bridget felt she knew their entire family history since moving into the cottage. Whatever happened before, when the Mulligans had lived in the castle, remained a mystery.
After Riley's whispered plea, Fiona had also circled around the time and subject of Patrick Mulligan's death. Even so, Bridget could determine the approximate time of that tragedy, based on when the photos of him stopped. Riley must've been around ten and Culley seven or eight. How sad for little boys to grow up without a daddy.
Listen to yourself. Wasn't she doing a decent job of raising a boy without a daddy?
Jacob had warmed to Fiona and Maggie, and Bridget smiled. She wanted this for her son—the family life she'd really never really known. Pity his only uncle resented the boy's presence. An uncle could help fill the gap left by a daddy. Most uncles. Not this one.
"Why don't you live in the castle?" Jacob asked hesitantly, earning a scowl from Riley and a moment of stunned silence from Fiona and Maggie. Jacob glanced nervously at his uncle and Bridget silently dared the man to snap at her son again in front of his momma.
Fiona took Jacob's hand and gazed up into his eyes. "Bad things happened to the Mulligans when they lived there," she said. "Once they moved into this cottage and sealed the castle, the bad things stopped. Of course, that was long before any of us were born."
"My... my daddy died," Jacob said as if testing the word on his lips. "That was bad."
"Aye, very bad." A catch sounded in Fiona's voice and Bridget let her hand rest on her mother-in-law's shoulder. "But sometimes accidents happen, Jacob. The things the Mulligans suffered while livin' in Caisleán Dubh were constant and terrible. The castle was like... bad luck, I suppose. Is that makin' any sense?"
Jacob appeared thoughtful, but finally nodded. A huge yawn split his face a moment later and Bridget laughed quietly. "I reckon this world traveler is ready for bed."
The open fondness shining in Fiona's eyes when she looked back at her made Bridget warm and happy all over. She felt welcomed and wanted, and her heart swelled with affection for the older woman. "Thank you," she whispered, and Fiona smiled with a gentle nod.
They understood each other. They'd both loved Culley—one as a momma and the other as a wife. And they both loved his son now. An invisible and sacred bond drew them together. Bridget had shared a similar bond with Granny—God rest her soul. Women needed this sense of family and belonging.
"Come along, Jacob," Maggie said, rising. "I'll take you up to your room."
Jacob bent down and placed a kiss on Fiona's cheek, much the same way he'd done his great-granny's back in Tennessee. "'Night, Mamó," he said.
"Good night, lad." Fiona patted her grandson's cheek.
"I'll be up to tuck you in directly," Bridget said, earning a smile and a wave, even as the boy cast his uncle a wary glance. Maggie also seemed to sense her nephew's fear of Riley and, when her brother looked her way, the girl tossed her head as if daring him to comment. She took Jacob's hand and they headed toward the stairs.
Riley's gaze returned to Bridget after his sister and Jacob were gone. He shook his head very slowly and arched one dark brow as if asking a question.
Bridget stared intently into his blue, blue eyes. She wanted him to welcome her and to believe her as his momma and sister had. After all, he was Culley's brother. Her brother-in-law. Jacob's only uncle.
Remembering what Mr. Larabee had said about Riley, she lifted her chin a notch, refusing to give an inch. The man had been rude to her, but he hadn't stated his suspicions or resentments outright. Until he did, she refused to confront him about them.
* * *
Bridget tucked the patchwork quilt around her son's narrow shoulders. They had the entire attic to themselves—a small alcove with a narrow bed for Jacob and the main room with a high four poster, a small iron stove in the corner near the window, and a rocking chair. They even had their own bathroom with an old claw-footed tub beneath a nice window.
Luxury. Pure luxury.
She washed her face and slipped into her worn flannel nightgown, then climbed into the bed, snuggling into—of all things—a feather bed. She had a vague memory of visiting her great-granny's cabin in the hills and sleeping in a feather bed once, and she'd thought then that it was the grandest thing in the world. She'd been right.
Thanking God for bringing them here to Culley's family, tears stung her eyes and she blinked. They'd come so close to being homeless, and now they not only had a home—at least for a while—but a family. A real family.
Her heart warmed all over again as she remembered the way Fiona Mulligan had welcomed and embraced them. Jacob had a real granny again, an aunt, and an uncle—well, sort of an uncle. Fiona and Maggie's warmth helped make up for Riley's aloofness. Surely he would realize how ridiculous it was to deny Jacob's relationship. The family resemblance was uncanny. Any fool could see it.
"Thank you, Lord," she whispered on a sigh.
Smiling, she turned on her side and clicked off the lamp. She folded her arms across her chest and stared into the dark for what seemed like hours. Sleep eluded her and she turned to her other side, staring at the patch of moonlight on the bedroom floor.
What time was it in Tennessee right now? She was exhausted, yet she couldn't sleep. Too much excitement, no doubt. She rose and padded barefoot to the long narrow window, welcoming the stove's radiant heat and the moonlight that bathed her face. The night was clear and cool. Mrs. Mulligan had said at dinner that the weather was fair for this time of year. Considering how incredibly green Ireland was, Bridget suspected rain was more common than sunshine.
Her gaze followed a streak of moonlight across the field toward the sea, but something tall, dark, and foreboding thrust upward from the earth to block her visual journey. Caisleán Dubh.
A tremor raced through her and she bit her lower lip. There was no such thing as a curse, yet something about that castle called out to her yet gave her the creeps at the same time.
A warning... or a welcome?
Oh, stop it, Bridget. With a sigh, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass and watched a lone figure stride through the moonlight. Her heart pressed upward against her throat. The figure paused and turned toward the cottage, and she had the undeniable feeling that he could see her standing there.
He was too far away to identify, but she knew somehow that the man was Riley Mulligan. Who else could he be? The land between the cottage and the castle all belonged to the Mulligans, and Riley was the only man in the family besides young Jacob.
He stood there unmoving, staring—so she imagined—right at her. After a few moments, he turned and continued on across the meadow. She released a shaky breath that fogged the windowpane. Rubbing the back of her neck, she went to peer at her sleeping son and smiled. At least one of them could rest.
A huge yawn tugged at her mouth and she decided she might try again, too. After all, tomorrow would be their first full day in Ireland, and she wanted to greet it fresh and rested.
The room was cool despite the stove, and she welcomed the weight of the patchwork quilt, tugging its softness up around her chin. As she had every night since learning her husband hadn't abandoned her, she pictured Culley's shy grin as he'd looked at their wedding, then later after they'd consummated their union. She reminded herself that their son had been conceived in love.
Her body warmed and relaxed. Her husband had been her first—and, so far, only—lover. She remembered that night as if it had been only yesterday.
He'd been so gentle, showing her how to please and be pleased. That first time had hurt some, but later... She sighed and a sad smile curved her lips. All those years of denying her love for Culley were past. Now she could remember him fondly and grieve for him.
And forgive herself for the years of doubt and suspicion...
Gradually, the image of Culley faded and another replaced it. This man was older, his hair long and shaggy, falling in dark waves to impossibly broad shoulders. His skin was bronzed from the sun, and his lips didn't display even the ghost of a smile. In fact, he scowled. Dark and brooding, Riley Mulligan's image filled her mind just as sleep finally overtook her.
And she dreamed.
The corner of the bed dipped from his weight and she felt his warmth before he touched her. He stroked her shoulder gently, trailing his fingertips to the slope of her throat, then along the neckline of her nightgown.
She wanted to touch him, too, and reached out to place her palms flat against his chest. Brazenly, she inched her hands lower to his ribs, marveling at the tautness of his abdomen. Reminding herself she was dreaming, she explored his body, outlining the slight indentation at his navel with the tip of her finger. Suspicion niggled at her just before his erection brushed against her hip.
He was naked.
So it was that kind of dream. But it was a dream, so the forbidden was allowed. A thrill shot through her and she didn't resist when her faceless lover eased her gown from her shoulders and slipped it down to her waist, baring her breasts to the cool night air. Her nipples tightened and puckered against the chill and a shiver skated down her spine.
Pressing her back against the soft bed, he hovered over her, his hard body burning her without touching. Then his lips sought hers, gentle at first, coaxing her mouth into a more pliant line. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and she opened to him, welcoming his hot, wet kiss as he buried his fingers in her hair.
Her nipples thrust upward and her breasts grew heavy. The crisp hair of his chest brushed against her taut peaks and a fire ignited her blood. No longer cold, she stared through the darkness without seeing his face at all.
She wanted him. Needed him.
He left her mouth and kissed her jaw, her throat, the curve of her shoulder. Her breath came rapidly now, her body suffused with liquid fire. No trace of chill remained as he blazed a trail along her collarbone, inching his way lower.
When at long last he cupped the weight of her breasts in both hands, she watched the dark shape of his head lower. Anticipation soared through her, but she resisted the impulse to link her hands behind his neck and drag him to her. She wanted his hot, wet mouth on her breast. God, what had come over her? She was out of her mind with desire. Hunger. Need.
He outlined her nipple with his tongue, lapping nearer the peak with each revolution. Finally, he covered one nipple with his lips and drew her deeply into his mouth as he massaged the other with his thumb.
She was on fire. So hot. She'd never felt this way before. He shared himself equally between her breasts and she finally surrendered to the urge to clutch him to her, pressing her bare flesh more fully into the heat of his mouth.
He eased one hand along the curve of her hip, pressing his rigid length against her bare thigh. He was so large, so hard, so ready. Something deep in her core tightened around an unbearable emptiness—a void she knew without a doubt that he could fill. And then some.
She murmured something shameless, though she wasn't sure of her words. All she knew was the wanting, the needing, the burning.
Then he left her breasts and hovered over her, poised between her thighs. A momentary panic stole through her, but she reminded herself yet again that this was a dream. Only a dream. She'd never had such an explicitly erotic dream before, but she figured as dreams went this one was a humdinger.
All right. She placed her hands on his slim hips, felt the muscles rippling in his buttocks. Any moment now, he would take the next step. She held her breath.
He muttered something in a h
usky voice and waited.
"What?" she asked, wondering what language he spoke. Just her luck to conjure up a dream lover who didn't speak English.
He remained poised above her for endless moments, and she felt his stare boring into her. What the devil was he waiting for anyway? She knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
He repeated the strange words, and she realized from his tone that he was asking her a question. She shook her head, trying to see his face through the darkness, but there was nothing.
A mist swirled about her and her dream lover vanished.
Bridget bolted upright in her bed, clutching the high collar of her nightgown with both fists. Gasping for breath, she clawed the tightness away from her throat until her lungs filled with sweet air. Sweat dripped down her face and neck, trickling between her aching breasts.
"A dream," she whispered, shoving her hair back from her face as she swung her feet to the cold floor. Her heart thundered at an alarming rate as she grabbed for the glass of water on her night stand and drained it.
Slowly, her breathing eased and her body cooled. She walked to the window again. The moon was higher now, shining across the field but not through her window any longer.
The man was there again, staring toward the house.
Toward her.
The castle loomed ominously in the background and she thought for a moment what a great poster it would make for a Stephen King movie or a Gothic romance. The brooding Irishman, the dark castle, the silvery moonlight.
And the damsel in distress?
She laughed quietly at her own foolishness. She sure as heck wasn't a damsel, nor was she in distress. Exactly. A yawn gripped her and she stretched, closing her eyes for only a moment. Reopening them, she looked outside again.
The man was gone.
Chapter 4
Riley gave up on sleep shortly before dawn. What little rest he'd managed to find had been disturbed by dreams hot enough to make a man ache. He couldn't remember dreams so vivid since adolescence. He and Culley had kidded around about—
