by Deb Stover
Riley gritted his teeth. For a few blessed moments, he'd almost forgotten about the intruder and her child. Shirtless and barefoot, he stood over the kitchen stove, waiting for the kettle to boil and squeezed his eyes shut. The lad was but a pawn in his mother's deceit, and it was wrong to blame young Jacob for any of this.
With a sigh, Riley raked his fingers through his hair, then grabbed the hot pad and kettle. He inhaled the rich steam as he wet the leaves. The whole pot might help him feel human again. Jaysus knew too little sleep and too bloody much gnawing in his groin made Riley grumpy as a stallion at gelding.
A shudder rippled through him at the thought. Well, perhaps not that grumpy. Aye, but the dreams didn't help matters. He'd thought himself well rid of those in recent years. Alas, they had returned last night with a vengeance.
Since puberty, Riley had been plagued with dreams of another time. The setting for these erotic dreams was an archaic bed chamber he'd never seen. A shiver sliced through him and he sipped his tea before it had cooled, scalding his tongue. "Eejit!"
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he shivered. It was her. He felt her before he saw her, and the sensation was powerful enough to render him silent. Sweeping his scalded tongue against the back of his teeth, he looked toward the archway where she stood.
Sunlight flowed through the window at her back, outlining the slender shape of her through her worn, white nightdress. Small blue flowers on the fabric had faded until they were practically invisible, and the gown left her feet and ankles bare to the morning chill. The female certainly played her role of poverty well. He'd give her that. But nothing more.
"Oh." She paused, her eyes widening. "Good morning," she said, smiling nervously. Her hair was mussed from sleep, her voice smooth like cream. "I don't own a robe. I... I didn't know anyone would be up and about this early." She gathered the ruffled collar of her nightdress closer.
She's bogus. Don't be forgetting that, Mulligan. However, no amount of reasoning or self-admonition could prevent his immediate physical response to the woman. His body sprang into an expectant state that rivaled even those infernal dreams.
Jaysus, you'd think I was still a lad just discovering I can get hard.
Heat flooded him and he cleared his throat. "Tea," he said, as if that explained why he was up even earlier than usual. "There's more in the pot, if you've a mind. Give a care. It's hot as..."
Mind your tongue, Riley. If he wasn't at least civil to the woman, Mum would likely take a switch to him, grown or not. And he'd let her, too, being the respectful son he was. A smile threatened to curve the corners of his mouth, but he caught himself.
"You don't drink much coffee in Ireland," she stated, rather than asked. "I read about some of y'all's customs before our trip."
Y'all again. "Some drink coffee, but we don't."
"I don't drink it myself, though I do like iced tea."
"Iced tea is for Yanks." Maybe bickering with her would distract him from the way her glossy brown hair swung about her shoulders when she shook her head.
"I've developed an unsociable habit—so Granny said—of drinking soda pop in the morning."
She laughed and the sound skittered through his bones and settled right between his legs. One thing was for damned sure. He wasn't about to let her see how she affected him. Wincing, Riley sat at the table, wrapping both hands around his cup and concentrating on his breathing.
"Maggie has some cola in the ice box," he said, and she immediately crossed the room and opened the humming appliance in the corner.
Jaysus help him, but he shouldn't have chosen that moment to look at her. The shape of her bum was clearly outlined through the thin fabric. And a fine bum it was, too. More's the pity.
"Ah, this is perfect. Thank you." She opened the cupboard and stretched to reach the top shelf, her breasts straining against the threadbare nightdress.
Was she so ignorant not to realize she was flaunting herself? Well, bloody hell, wasn't he sitting here without a shirt? Mum certainly wouldn't approve of her son's appearance, especially at her table.
He narrowed his eyes as Bridget joined him there, pouring the foaming brown liquid into her glass. She lifted it to her full pink lips, then hesitated and held it out toward him instead. "Cheers."
The last thing in the world Riley wanted was to toast this woman. She was an intruder. The enemy. Even if she did light a fire in a man's blood.
Finally, he lifted his cup and said, "Fírinne." He smiled to himself at her look of confusion.
"What does that mean?" She sipped her cola, peering at him with large green eyes.
"Truth." He drained his cup and refilled it, carefully avoiding her gaze. She cleared her throat, obviously wanting him to look at her. He took his sweet time about it, draining his second cup before facing her again. "And speaking of the truth," she said, her voice trailing away.
Her luscious lips were pressed into a thin line now, her delicate nostrils flaring slightly, and her arms folded beneath her breasts, raising them to greater prominence.
Why'd she have to do that?
Maintaining a good hot head of anger with a woman he wanted to strip naked and take right here on his mum's kitchen table was wearing on a man. Disgraceful, Riley. Aye, but want her he did. Her nightdress was so thin he could actually see the shape of her dark nipples peering back at him.
Jaysus. He reached for the pot again, hoping his hands didn't tremble. If she had something to say, she'd best be doing it, or she'd be talking to his empty chair. He had a full day's work ahead.
And more than one kind of steam to burn off.
"Mr. Mulligan," she began.
"Riley," he corrected. "Mum won't be having it any other way."
"Riley, then."
She drew a deep breath, taunting him with her magnificent breasts. He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze back to her slightly flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
Aye, he could see how Culley might have fallen for the wench, but married her? Not with Katie Rearden here at home waiting for him. Besides, Culley wouldn't have married without the church. Would he?
No, Riley wasn't buying any of that nonsense. Though, he had to admit, his randy younger brother might have—Riley looked at her again—probably had bedded the comely Bridget. What healthy Irishman wouldn't, given the opportunity? And she had, undoubtedly, provided that opportunity.
"I've chores." He set his cup aside and rose, suddenly needing fresh air.
"Please, wait."
She rose, standing so near that the warmth of her closed the very inadequate distance between them. The room suddenly seemed smaller, the temperature scorching, and the air practically non-existent.
He ached with longing for this deceitful bit of skirt. What had come over him? The same thing that had come over Culley, no doubt. Riley drew a shaky breath, trying not to think about the insistent throbbing between his legs.
"What do you want?" he asked, trying to keep his voice impassive.
"Why do you hate me?"
He made the mistake of allowing her to capture his gaze. The emerald depths seized him by the throat and held him prisoner. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He couldn't think.
Shite. He needed a woman, but not this one. No, the one who'd ignited the flame would not be the one to extinguish it. She may have seduced one Mulligan male, and that was one too many.
"Why do you hate me?" she prodded.
"Hate is a strong word." He managed to free his gaze from hers and stared beyond her at the window sill lined with varicolored glass bottles mum had collected.
"What would you call it then?" She placed a hand on his arm.
Riley flinched as if burned, but he didn't pull away. He was so drawn, so imprisoned by this woman that he couldn't have brushed her aside right now if his life depended on it. Was this how Culley had felt?
"Are you a cailleach?" he finally asked, glancing down at her hand on his bare arm.
"What's a—what you said?"<
br />
"A witch." Rage built within him as he thought of his younger brother. Culley should be here now, married to Katie, as he'd promised. "Is that how you do it? How you did it to Culley, cailleach?" His voice fell to a ragged whisper as he struggled between rage and lust.
Her brows pulled together and she drew a sharp breath. "I didn't do anything to Culley except... except love him." Her voice fell to a ragged whisper and she looked down, dropping her hand to her side.
Something wet landed on his bare toe. Riley looked down in time to watch a succession of small droplets land on and near his bare feet. Realization nearly unmanned him.
She was crying.
He tightened his hands into fists, struggling against the sudden, powerful urge to reach out to her. He was a sap. Swallowing hard, he lifted his hand and reached toward her shoulder.
"Good morning," Maggie said, marching into the room and straight toward the ice box. She stopped midway across the room and stared, obviously noticing that her brother wasn't alone.
Riley dropped his guilty hand to his side and silently cursed himself as his sister's gaze went from Bridget's bowed head to Riley, shooting him an accusing glare.
"Riley Francis Mulligan, what have you done?" Maggie rushed to Bridget and slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her back to her chair. "There, now, Bridget. Maggie won't let big, bad Riley hurt you," his sister cooed.
Jaysus. How the devil had he become the villain in this nightmare? He raked his fingers through his hair and looked up at the ceiling.
"He... he..." Bridget hiccupped, playing her role to the hilt.
"You brute," Maggie whispered, stroking Bridget's hair.
Helpless, Riley shook his head and held his hands out to his sides. Bridget had manipulated this somehow. Maybe she'd known exactly what time Maggie would come downstairs.
The voice of logic protested from the back of his mind, but he banished it. "I've chores," he said, stomping toward the back door.
He wrenched open the door and slammed it behind him, shivering on the stoop in the early morning fog. "You bloody eejit," he muttered, glancing down at his bare torso and feet. How was a man to save face in this house filled with conniving women? The whole lot of them were ganging up on him.
Nevertheless, a farmer couldn't put in a fair day's work without his boots. With a sigh, Riley opened the door and re-entered the warm kitchen. Both Maggie and Bridget sat staring at him, as if they'd been waiting for him to return for his shirt and boots.
Head held high, Riley strolled past them to the back staircase, refusing to even acknowledge them. A man had his pride, after all.
Halfway up the worn wooden steps, he allowed himself to breathe. From now on, he would keep a safe distance from Bridget. With any luck, she would pack up and take her son back to the States where they belonged.
On the next step, something sharp and burning impaled his toe. "Ow!"
Female twittering drifted up the narrow staircase. Gnashing his teeth, Riley sat on the step and yanked the offensive splinter out of the soft underside of his big toe, then continued up the steps. They were laughing at him. Well, let them.
The sooner he set about his work, the sooner he could put Bridget Not-Mulligan out of his mind. The woman was a cailleach and a temptress. A siren. Aye, and a dangerously appealing one at that.
Even though he didn't believe her innocent hillbilly ruse, or her claim of having married Culley, he couldn't prevent himself from lusting heartily after the woman. He burned for her with a fierceness he had never known, except in those wretched dreams.
That thought shot through him like an flaming arrow, setting his gut—and other more aggravating regions—on fire. Aye, he wanted the woman with an intensity very similar to those relentless dreams. Why? His breath caught as he remembered the way she moved, the fall of hair over her shoulder, the silk of her voice.
What was it about her? Who was she, really? What was she?
And why did he suddenly feel trapped?
He was so distracted, he walked right into the low beam at the top of the steps. "Ow!"
* * *
Bridget took several deep breaths, forcing her tears to cease. She listened while Maggie made excuses for her brother's behavior. Though Riley had upset her, he hadn't made her cry. All those years of hating Culley had made her cry—not his brother. She would never be free of the guilt she bore over her late husband. If only she'd known. If only she could undo all the days of resenting him.
But that was past. Culley was dead and buried, but she was here with his son and the rest of his kin now. She would make up for thinking ill of him. She would. Otherwise, the confounded guilt would destroy her.
She sniffled, vowing to be strong. She didn't want Jacob coming down to catch his momma carrying on so. Hearing Riley's second "ow" did the trick, and Bridget soon found herself giggling along with Maggie.
When Maggie rose to fetch her soda, Bridget pondered the memory of how Riley had looked when she'd first walked into the kitchen this morning. She'd never seen such broad shoulders, or muscles so well defined. Heat suffused her all over again and her pulse did a square dance along her veins.
Mercy. The only time Bridget could remember feeling so physically drawn to a man was when she'd first met Culley. Sex appeal obviously ran in the family, though she'd already had her quota of Mulligan men.
Still, a girl was allowed to admire the scenery. Wasn't she?
Warmth settled low in her belly and she squirmed, crossing her legs as if that would banish her sinful thoughts and urges. Of course, this was mild compared to that dream she'd had last night. Erotically frustrating. Wasn't that what one of those fancy women's magazines at Miss Daisy's Clip and Curl would've called it? She couldn't have chosen a worse moment to awaken from that dream than if she'd actually planned to torture herself.
Torture.
That pretty much described that dream and Riley Mulligan.
Forget Riley. Best forget the dream, too.
Dabbing her eyes dry with the edges of her sleeves, Bridget drew a deep, cleansing breath. "Thank you, Maggie," she said on a sigh, patting her sister-in-law's hand when she returned to the table.
"For saving you from that big brute?" Maggie directed a glower toward the stairs. "'Twas my pleasure."
Bridget smiled sadly. "No, I can handle the likes of him."
"Then why were you crying?" Maggie asked.
"Remembering Culley."
"Mum told me how you just learned about his accident." Maggie gave her hand a squeeze. "It must've been hard on you raising Jacob alone and not knowing."
Bridget nodded. "I believed the worst of my husband. That's what I regret most."
"Aye, but wouldn't Culley be first to forgive you?"
The tone of Maggie's voice gave Bridget pause. She met the younger woman's gaze and recognized the warmth of it in her own heart. "You're right. He would." And, as Granny would've insisted, that was all that really mattered. "Thank you."
"I didn't do anything." Maggie lifted a shoulder. "It's glad I am that you're here."
"I'm glad, too." Bridget rested the flat of her palms against the scarred old table. How many of these scratches had been committed by Culley as a boy? Dragging herself back to the present, she said, "I aim to earn my way, too."
"Nonsense, you're company." Maggie dismissed Bridget's words too easily.
"No." Bridget waited for Maggie to look at her again, then added, "I don't want to be just company. For Jacob's sake. And for his daddy's."
Maggie stared for several minutes. "I understand. You're family, and you should be treated as family. Both of you. Culley would've wanted it that way."
Bridget swallowed the lump in her throat and sniffled. "I aim to be worthy." She pushed away from the table. "And if I really am family, then I'll be doing my share of chores. Where should I start?"
Maggie's blue eyes widened and she leaned closer conspiratorially, looking toward the stairs. "Can you cook?"
Pride filled
Bridget. "That's one thing I do pretty darn well, if I do say so myself." She glanced heavenward, adding, "Thanks to Granny."
"It's joyous I am to hear you say that." Maggie rolled her eyes. "With Mum laid up with the gout, I've been trying to do the cooking, but..." She grinned and shrugged. "Well, you tasted supper last night."
Bridget chewed her lower lip, forbidding herself from asking exactly what the main course had been. She'd eaten as much as humanly possible, and was relieved now to learn her mother-in-law had not been responsible.
"Ah, well, you needn't pretend, Bridget." Maggie laughed quietly. "I'm a terrible cook, and don't I know it? Riley reminds me often enough."
"Can he cook?"
Maggie's eyes widened and she made a choking sound. "Oh, now that would be something to behold." She released a long sigh. "Riley Mulligan? Cook?"
"Well, then I don't reckon he has business judging your cooking." Bridget flinched as the front door slammed.
"Himself, sneaking out the front door so we won't laugh at him again."
They both laughed anyway, though Bridget tried very hard to resist. Still, snickering at Riley with his sister was safer than dwelling on the crazy things he'd made her think and feel earlier.
"He'll be back for breakfast after he sees to the stock, and Mum should be down shortly." Maggie looked toward the stove. "I don't have school today. Will you teach me to fix a breakfast that won't give everyone indigestion?"
"We'll rustle up something that'll even put a smile on grouchy old Riley's face."
Maggie sighed, her expression solemn. "I'm afraid that will take more than good food."
"If you mean because he hates me, he's made that clear as spring water." She shook her head. "But he'll come around once he learns that Bridget Mulligan doesn't lie."
"It isn't just you." Maggie rose, staring past Bridget. "When Da died, so did the happy, carefree lad who was Riley Mulligan."
Shivering, Bridget followed her sister-in-law's gaze to the window and beyond. Morning sunlight shone above the ground-hugging fog outside, and a dark, intrusive spire jutted heavenward from the bowels of the smoke-like moisture.
Caisleán Dubh.
