by Deb Stover
Maggie paused near the castle and Jacob tilted his head back and said, "Cool."
His aunt laughed. "'Tis huge. I always wondered why they needed such a high tower."
"To keep watch," Bridget said without thinking. Realizing what she'd said, she blinked and added, "I reckon."
Maggie gave her a questioning look, then nodded, her expression solemn now. "And isn't that just what Riley's always said, too?"
For some reason, knowing Riley had the same thought she had about Caisleán Dubh made a lump form in Bridget's throat. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she couldn't prevent the surge of relief that swelled within her as Maggie started toward town again.
"Does our castle have a story?" Jacob asked as they walked away from the structure.
"It isn't our castle, Jacob," Bridget corrected in a gentle tone.
"Aye, it is in part," Maggie said. "After all, it's all Mulligan land, and you're both Mulligans."
Bridget nodded, blinking the moisture from her eyes. You're both Mulligans... She drew a deep breath and concentrated on the soft earth beneath her old tennies as they cut across a field.
At least Caisleán Dubh was behind them now. She breathed a sigh of relief, determined to regain control of her overactive imagination and unfounded fear of a pile of rock.
"Does it have a story?" Jacob repeated after a few minutes, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder at the tower.
"Aye, more than one, I'm afraid." Maggie's voice softened, but her expression did just the opposite. "I think your mamó is the best person to tell you those stories. Ask her, Jacob, and I'm sure she'll share them all in due time."
"Okay." Seeming content with that explanation, Jacob faced forward and fell silent.
"Is this part of your farm, too?" Bridget asked, still unable to think of any of this as hers or Jacob's. She could hope, but not expect. Never that. After all, she'd expected to inherit Granny's trailer, and look what that expecting had reaped.
Homelessness, if not for the miracle of finding Culley's family after all this time.
"Aye." Maggie paused, bringing the others to a halt beside her. She lifted her free hand and pointed across the field. "All that, too."
Bridget shaded her eyes with one hand and gazed out across the field. A hedge of riotous flowers lined one side of the field, and a man drove a tractor alongside it. She squinted, trying to see him more clearly.
A breeze wafted in off the ocean, lifting the man's shaggy, dark hair off his shoulders. He chose that moment to swing the tractor back toward them. Maggie waved, but he kept on driving.
"Grouchy old Riley," she muttered, continuing toward town.
Bridget felt something warm on her back, but she knew it wasn't the sun, which shone brightly in their faces. Keeping pace with Maggie and Jacob, she stole a glance back over her shoulder and saw that the tractor had stopped.
And the man sat there, staring.
A wave of heat—almost as if he'd touched her—washed through her. Riley Mulligan disturbed Bridget almost as much as Caisleán Dubh.
A demanding tightening low in her belly brought another surge of heat hurtling through her. Her breasts felt swollen and achy, her nipples hard and erect enough to make her tug her sweater away from her body self-consciously.
No. The man disturbed her far more than the castle.
Or the curse.
* * *
He released the laces, slipping the thin muslin from her shoulders. Slowly. The delay almost killed him, but he wanted to savor every moment, every glimpse of newly exposed flesh. He stood back a moment, admiring the way the fabric caught on the peaks of her breasts, as if waiting for a signal from him.
Aye, and he was weary of the waiting. He met her gaze, watching the flames of desire leap in her eyes. She stood before the hearth, and the warmth of the fire flowed around her to kiss their bare skin. The shiver that rippled through him had naught to do with the temperature.
It had everything to do with the longing in his heart, his soul, his flesh.
Perhaps it was wrong to want this forbidden one, yet want her he did. She reached toward him, the movement revealing one taut nipple. He licked his lips and bid the throbbing in his loins to be patient.
"Luí le chéile. Lovely," he whispered. "Grá."
Her breath caught as he reached forward to free her other nipple from the fabric. She was too beautiful for words, too perfect.
And she was his. How could he not take what she offered? She honored him.
He stepped closer, filling his hands with her luscious breasts, brushing his thumbs across their rigid tips. She gasped, bit her lower lip, but did not turn him away.
Instead, she slipped her slender arms about his waist and moaned as he dipped his head to flick his tongue against her nipple. She was so sweet, so soft, so warm.
He would die if she denied him now, though she had every right to do so. She kissed the side of his neck, freeing the last of the laces holding his tunic.
Guilt gnawed at him and he captured her wrists, staring into her glittering eyes. "Be very sure..."
"Jaysus." Riley shook himself from the daydream. He'd stopped his work for a sip of water, and the next thing he knew he was sitting in a field, imagining himself making love to a beautiful woman.
"Shite, Mulligan." He cut the engine and checked to make sure the brake was set, then jumped to the ground to pace. It was bad enough for a grown man to suffer through dreams of a carnal nature while sound asleep.
He gulped several deep breaths, noticing dark clouds beginning to gather. After a few moments, the throbbing ache between his legs eased and the sea-scented breeze dried the sweat coating his flesh.
Why had the dreams returned? And why now? Jaysus, but he was thirty-one—far too old to walk around with a willy hard enough to dig ditches.
He never saw the woman's features clearly in his dreams—either awake or asleep—though he did see her eyes. Strange that even now he couldn't tell what color they were.
Aye, but he'd recognize her breasts anywhere.
"Enough of that." The woman and her breasts didn't exist anywhere but in Riley's libidinous imagination. He took a long pull of cool water, then climbed back onto the tractor seat. He had work to do, and no time for daydreams of hot sex with beautiful women.
Or one, nameless, beautiful woman.
The sun slipped behind a cloud and he glanced at the sky again, but his gaze was drawn toward the sea. A cloud settled near the tower, growing darker and more threatening every minute. More clouds joined it until he could barely see the top.
A chill permeated the breeze that had been so warm earlier. He glanced toward the road, wondering if Maggie and her companions would get wet before they returned from Ballybronagh.
He'd rather enjoyed the sway of Bridget's hips as she'd walked along the road with his sister and Jacob. Had that triggered his daydream?
"What rot." He shook his head and sighed. The weather was turning soft and he still had hours worth of chores ahead. "Get to work."
A gull called, drawing his gaze back to the tower. Uneasiness oozed through him, but didn't it always when he looked upon the woeful black stones of Caisleán Dubh? More of late, it seemed. But why?
"It's nothing but a bloody pile of rock," he muttered.
Then why couldn't he shake the feeling of being watched?
* * *
Ballybronagh looked like something from a travel guide. Bridget stood with Maggie and Jacob on a rise, gazing down at the busy village. Maggie pointed to various buildings, explaining their purpose. Ballybronagh had a school and a church, though they sometimes attended special services in nearby Kilmurry.
"Kill Murray?" Jacob repeated before Bridget could. "Why did somebody kill Murray?"
Maggie laughed, but Bridget thought her son's question made perfect sense, though she'd done enough research to remember that Kil was a common part of village names in Ireland. Even so, after a moment, her sister-in-law seemed to realize she wa
s the only one laughing.
"Kil, with only one L, means church," she explained. "Many villages are named after the local church."
Bridget gazed down at the village again, noticing the nearest building had a thatched roof and appeared very old. A wooden sign hanging out front dubbed it Gilhooley's Pub. Remembering Fiona's mention of that place earlier, she couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at her lips.
They continued into town, walking along the sidewalks, some of which were made of stones fitted together, rather than cement. Reedville had one cobblestone street still in existence, but this was even older.
"It's like something from a history book," she said. Even some of the older folks hurrying about looked like historical characters, though most people were dressed much like Maggie and Bridget.
An ancient woman leaning on a cane stopped in front of them. "Top o' the mornin' to you, Mary Margaret Mulligan," the woman said in a voice that sounded too strong to come from such a frail body.
"And to you, Mrs. Flaherty." Maggie placed a hand on Jacob's shoulder. "I'd like you to meet—"
"So this be Culley Mulligan's son." The old woman nodded, her faded blue eyes sweeping over Jacob. "You're the image of your da, lad. No one can deny you that."
Jacob fidgeted and mumbled his thanks. Bridget placed a supportive hand on her son's shoulder, barely able to keep from hugging him and telling him how proud she was of him right here and now. After all, he'd only recently learned about his daddy. Hearing folks other than his momma exclaim over how much he resembled Culley Mulligan was a brand new experience for Jacob.
Then Mrs. Flaherty's gaze pinned her, and Bridget lost her ability to speak or even to think clearly. The woman had an uncanny way of seeing right through a person. Granny had been that way at times.
"And you're the one who stole Culley from Kathleen."
Confused, Bridget met Maggie's gaze. Her sister-in-law rolled her eyes and shook her head very slightly. "I... I'm Bridget Mulligan," she said, offering her hand.
The woman stared at her for several moments, then shook Bridget's hand. "You're a good, strong lass," Mrs. Flaherty said finally, turning toward the street. "A pity it is that you thought to divorce poor Culley." Muttering under her breath, the old woman crossed the narrow street.
Bridget stared, open-mouthed at the retreating figure. "I..." She opened and closed her mouth several times, unable to form words.
"Never you mind the likes of her," Maggie said, reaching over to give Bridget's shoulder a squeeze. "It's her generation. And the church."
"Your granny felt the same." Bridget thought back to the day Mr. Larabee had given her Fiona's letter. She had mentioned there that her mother-in-law had hidden the divorce papers. "I thought..."
"I understand what happened," Maggie said. "Mum explained it all to us. Now, you're not to worry yourself about it anymore, Bridget Mulligan. I won't hear of it, and neither will Mum."
No mention of Riley. Still, Bridget managed a nod and a fortifying breath. "Where's the market?" Later, she would ask about the mysterious Kathleen. Culley had certainly never mentioned having a girlfriend back in Ireland.
Mercy. Bridget already had a reputation here as a divorced woman who stole other women's men, and she hadn't done anything to earn it. At least... not deliberately. Yes, she definitely needed more information about Kathleen and her relationship with Culley.
The market was outside, where rows of fruits, nuts, and vegetables were displayed for shoppers. Bridget noticed a butcher shop next door. She hadn't seen a butcher shop since she was a little girl. After the Piggly Wiggly went in at Reedville, the small grocery store and butcher shop had closed.
"Cherries aren't in season yet," she said as they walked up and down the aisles.
"I wonder if Mr. Clancy has any dried ones," Maggie said.
"And juice would help, too." Bridget followed Maggie into the small market. They read several labels and bought all the packages of dried cherries on the shelf, and four bottles of cherry juice.
Mr. Clancy was a robust man with a bald head and a red handlebar moustache. "Cherries, is it? I'm expectin' a shipment in a few weeks."
Maggie introduced Bridget and Jacob to Mr. Clancy, who greeted them without any snide comments about divorce or Americans or stealing other women's men. He winked at Bridget and said, "That Culley always did have a good eye."
Bridget blushed and managed to thank the man for his compliment. They walked back outside and saw the clouds gathering in the distance. Only now did Bridget notice that Caisleán Dubh was visible from the village, too. That danged castle was following her.
Silly. She glanced at Maggie who was staring at the sky, too.
"Welcome to Ireland," her sister-in-law said, flashing Jacob and Bridget a smile. Her red hair turned flaming in the waning sunlight as the clouds gathered.
They had no umbrellas or raincoats, but neither did anyone else Bridget saw. "I guess we'll get wet."
"Let's duck into Gilhooley's for a bite." Maggie looked at the sky again. "The weather might clear by the time we're finished."
"A bar?" Bridget stiffened. "We can't take Jacob into a... a honkytonk."
"It's a pub." Maggie's brow creased in a frown. "I don't know what pubs or honkytonks are like in Tennessee, but it's really just a restaurant."
"It's not a bar?"
"Aye, they serve ale and whiskey, if that's what you mean." Maggie turned toward Gilhooley's. "I promise it's all right. Children go there with their families all the time."
The interior of the pub was as interesting as the exterior. Dark, gleaming wood was everywhere—the floor, the bar, the doors, the ceiling beams. Scratches and worn areas along the bar told of the pub's popularity over generations.
Bridget was relieved to see families inside having lunch, just as Maggie had described. Booths lined the wall of windows, and tables sat throughout the place, nearer the bar. A fireplace with a huge stove occupied the longest wall between the bar and the front door. Maggie led them to a booth near a window.
A woman about Fiona's age approached and passed out menus. She gave Jacob one with a cup of crayons. They were obviously prepared for children. Bridget relaxed even more when a family of four entered with children even younger than Jacob. Several men came in as well and occupied the tables and stools nearest the bar.
"You're still not interested in a job here, Maggie?" the woman asked.
"No. Mum insists I go to university, like Da wanted."
"Well, I can't argue that. Fiona is a wise woman," Aileen said with a grudging nod. "Your da left the money for college, and 'tis glad I am you'll be putting it to use."
"Thank you." Maggie cleared her throat and held her hand toward Bridget and Jacob. "Aileen, this is Bridget and her son Jacob. My nephew."
The look Aileen turned on Bridget made her breath hitch. Bridget had seen Mrs. Harbaugh's old tomcat look at General Lee with a kinder expression. "How do you do, Mrs. Gilhooley?" Determinedly, Bridget thrust out her right hand.
Aileen chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, then shook Bridget's hand, though the look in her eyes was still wary. However, when she glanced down at Jacob, a look of surprise and downright delight replaced the suspicion she'd reserved for Bridget.
"By the saints," Aileen said, "he's Culley Mulligan all over again."
"Aye," Maggie said, reaching across the table to pat Jacob's hand. "Mum's tickled to have both Culley's son and widow with us now."
Bridget arched her brows questioningly at Maggie, who rolled her eyes toward Aileen. The message was clear that Maggie intended to tolerate no insults aimed at her sister-in-law or nephew. Bridged mouthed a "thank you" while Aileen went on and on about how much Jacob looked like his daddy.
"How old are you, Jacob?" the older woman asked.
"Six." Jacob looked up at the woman with a smile. "I'll go to first grade next year."
"You're gonna be a big strapping lad like your da and your Uncle Riley." The woman sighed, smiling. "Lunch is on the
house in honor of the newest Mulligan."
The rapid switch from resentment to open welcome startled Bridget. Confused, she waited until Aileen had taken their order and disappeared into the kitchen before she leaned across the table toward Maggie. "What... was that?"
Maggie laughed and took a sip of water. "The Irish are steeped in tradition. The old ways are valued and passed on from generation to generation." She lifted a shoulder and leaned her chin on her fist, her gaze holding Bridget's. "Being a Mulligan in Ballybronagh is tradition, so there you have it."
"And Jacob is a Mulligan by birth." Bridget gave a nod. "The hills of eastern Tennessee are a lot like that, too. Kin's important, no matter who they are or what they've done. It's... unconditional, I reckon."
"Exactly." Maggie nodded and thanked Aileen when she brought their plates to the table.
"What's that?" Jacob asked, staring at a platter filled with something breaded and fried to a perfect golden brown.
"Fish 'n chips," Maggie explained as Aileen walked away, still mumbling about how much Jacob favored his daddy.
"Looks like chicken," Jacob said, looking at Bridget. "Don't it?"
Bridget laughed quietly. "It's batter dipped like my catfish, Jacob."
His eyes widened. "I like that."
"I know."
Maggie showed Jacob how to dip his fish in the malt vinegar, smiling when his eyes lit up after his first bite.
Bridget pointed to the chips on his plate. "Those are like round french fries, Jacob."
"The lady said chips," he argued.
"They just call them chips here. Try one," Bridget said.
He took a bite and nodded, then turned his full attention to the food.
Maggie smiled. "You and Jacob are very close."
Bridget nodded. "Except for Granny, all we've had is each other since Grandpa died."
"I'm glad you've had that." Maggie took a bite of her sandwich.
Bridget tried the bowl of Irish stew she'd ordered and smiled. A bit of chopped celery would've livened up the broth some, but it was still tasty. She broke off a piece of the brown bread in the basket on the table and tasted it. "This is different," she said.
