Mulligan Stew

by Deb Stover

  He released a shaky breath and gazed out toward the ocean, and at something else she suspected only he could see. "It's nothing to concern you, and I'm sorry for being so rough."

  Absently, she rubbed her upper arms. "You didn't hurt me. I'm tough peasant stock." She grinned when he half-smiled in her direction. "My grandpa told long tales about how his family fled Ireland during the Potato Famine, so I reckon that makes me Irish peasant stock."

  "Bridget is an Irish name. A saint's name, be it fitting or not."

  "I'm not a saint," she said quietly, "but I'm not bad either. Maybe someday you'll open the eyes God gave you and realize that."

  He folded his arms in front of him and a muscle in his jaw clenched. His eyes appeared icy as they swept over her. "Irish peasant stock, I believe. I'm not so sure of the other."

  "You'll believe what you want, I reckon." Riley Mulligan's opinion shouldn't matter to her, but it did.

  "Aye, that I will." He sighed and dropped his hands to his sides. "What are you doing here, snooping around Caisleán Dubh?"

  "I wouldn't call it snooping." She clenched her jaw, wishing she could ask him about the castle. Why did it call to her so? Now wasn't the time. She would try again, though. Caisleán Dubh wouldn't have it any other way.

  And that assurance both terrified and tantalized her.

  "No one enters Caisleán Dubh." His voice echoed off the castle wall.

  "You Mulligans weren't peasants," Bridget said, determined to steer their conversation another direction.

  "Aren't you the most exasperating—" He shook his head. "No. The Mulligans became simple farmers by choice," he said, half-facing her now.

  He seemed almost friendly now as Bridget allowed her gaze to travel the length of him and back. Wind ruffled his overly long hair and made her heart do a little somersault right there in her chest. What would old Doc Boliver back in Reedville have called that? A ventricular something-or-other, no doubt.

  She called it downright disturbing.

  Her breath caught as Riley turned more fully toward her. The man could have stepped from the pages of one of the historical romances Mrs. Larabee devoured, and had passed on to Bridget. He was rugged, square-jawed, with long dark curls any woman would've loved to run her fingers through.

  The urge to do so overtook her and she raised her hand to trail her fingertips through the longest strands near his massive shoulder. A flame flared in his bright blue eyes, so hot it threatened to incinerate them both.

  A tremor coursed through her, compounding her need and her confusion. The castle's infernal whispering commenced again and she took a step toward him. What was it about this man that made her want to do things she hadn't wanted to do with anyone since her husband's death?

  "I wish I could understand what it's saying," he said, not pulling away as she stroked his hair. "And to whom."

  "So do I." She didn't have to ask him for an explanation, for the same thought plagued her. Caisleán Dubh was speaking to them, and only to them. It had also spoken to Culley. The brothers belonged to the castle and the land, but Bridget didn't. Why her?

  "And why do you hear it?" he asked, echoing her own thoughts.

  There was no harshness in his voice as he stood facing her while she shamelessly trailed her fingers through his gleaming black hair.

  "I don't know." Her voice sounded huskier than usual—downright sultry. Her cheeks warmed and she struggled against the need to bury both her hands in his hair and pull his lips down to meet hers. Yes, a kiss. She wanted—no, needed—to kiss this man more than she needed to draw her next breath.

  It was nonsense.

  It was destiny.

  Listen to yourself. The voice of reason tried to argue, but the castle's whispering and the bewildering flame that burned within her defeated logic and common sense.

  Still, she didn't move any closer, though she wanted to more than anything. Instead, she waited and listened as the rhythm of her pulse melded with the cadence of the castle's whispers.

  "We'd best get back before Mum starts worrying herself," he said thickly, though the spark in his eyes said he wanted to do something far different.

  "You want to kiss me," she said, then bit her lower lip as she realized what she'd said.

  The blaze in his eyes flared and he nodded once. "But I won't."

  "No, of course not."

  They were both pitiful liars.

  Chapter 9

  Riley had skipped breakfast, barely tasted lunch, but he absolutely gorged himself at supper. The roast Bridget had prepared practically melted in a man's mouth. Cabbage, onions, and spuds swam temptingly in the rich brown gravy surrounding the meat—a bit of heaven in every morsel.

  Filled to near bursting, he leaned back in his chair and knew he had to pay his compliments to the cook. Everyone had watched him savor each bite, and to ignore the person who had prepared the feast would be inexcusable.

  Bridget confused him. One moment she seemed so genuine he almost forgot that she'd lured his gullible young brother into her bed. Furthermore, he mustn't forget that if Culley hadn't been with Bridget in Tennessee, he might still be alive. Wondering wouldn't bring Culley back, but Riley had best not forget that again.

  He'd come far too close to kissing her this afternoon. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he vowed to work harder on his self-control. Unfortunately, his anatomy had other ideas. Bloody inconvenient.

  All the food Riley had consumed set well in his stomach and he sighed. Without looking at Bridget, he made the sacrifice and said, "Fine meal."

  Maggie gasped.

  Mum said, "Praise be."

  Bridget remained silent. He ventured a look at her and found her cheeks flushed and her gaze directed toward her lap. She was easier to tolerate when she chattered nonsense like the infernal bird that perched outside his bedroom window every bloody morning. This silent Bridget was more disconcerting.

  More dangerous.

  "I hope Maggie learns to cook as well," he continued, forcing himself to play the role. Why were they all so shocked by common courtesy? He wasn't that much of a boor. Was he? Aye, well, toward Bridget he had been, but nothing had changed.

  "Granny taught Momma to be the best cook in the whole world," Jacob said, wriggling with obvious pride.

  "Aye, lad, I believe she may be just that," Mum said.

  Riley added, "If she can teach our Maggie to cook anything edible, won't I be dancing a jig in the center of Ballybronagh?"

  "Well, now, isn't that something I'd like to see?" Maggie asked. "Riley Mulligan dancing. Maybe he'll even smile. Imagine that."

  "Never happen," Mum teased.

  Riley's face grew hot as the exchange of good-natured barbs continued. Jaysus. He wasn't an ogre. He knew how to smile. How was it that his family thought so little of him?

  "Ah, boyo, 'tis funnin' with you, we are." Mum reached behind Jacob and gave Riley's shoulder a squeeze.

  Shite. He wasn't a lad in need of comfort. He pushed away from the table and rose. "I'm going to the stable, where a man might get a bit of respect."

  "Can I come?"

  Riley froze at hearing the lad's softly asked question. His breath stuttered free and he inclined his head without looking at anyone else. "Aye." He shot a quick glance at Bridget. "If it's agreeable to your mum."

  Riley Mulligan was going soft.

  The gratitude shining in Bridget's eyes nearly unhinged him. He couldn't draw a decent breath for several seconds.

  "Be careful," Bridget said, her gaze still fixed on him.

  Something tightened around Riley's chest as Jacob jumped up and hurried to the door. The lad's enthusiasm reminded him so much of Culley, he was taken back more than twenty years to this very same kitchen.

  Jaysus, this child is my brother's son.

  Shame for the way he'd treated Jacob at first pricked at Riley as he tore his gaze from Bridget's and made his way to the door. He stared at the peg holding his heavy, old fisherman's jumper. Beside it, Jacob'
s much smaller sweatshirt hung as if it belonged there. And it did belong there.

  Just as Jacob belonged here at his side.

  Memories flashed unbidden to Riley's mind. He and Culley racing across the field toward the sea. He and Culley in the meadow, staring up at the clouds. He and Culley duking it out over something or another. A smile curved Riley's lips.

  "Uncle Riley can too smile," Jacob announced. "See?"

  Riley's smile faded as he stared at Jacob's pointing finger. He glanced across the room and met his mum's knowing gaze. The old woman saw Riley's heart, but knowing that didn't gnaw at him at all. She was his mum.

  A cap hung on the end peg that hadn't been worn in more than seven years. Riley reached for it, his heart thundering against his ribs as he closed his fingers about the brim and removed the dusty wool beret. For a few moments, all he could do was stare at it. And remember...

  Tenderly, he brushed dust from the cap and pulled the leather tab inside the brim to tighten the band as much as possible. He cleared his throat and faced Jacob, focusing only on the lad.

  "This is for you," he said, holding the cap out to Jacob.

  A muffled sob came from Mum and Riley blinked away the stinging sensation behind his eyes. He didn't dare look at his family right now.

  "For... me?" Jacob took the cap and turned it around in his fingers to examine it. A huge grin split the lad's face, displaying a missing tooth right in front. "Really and truly mine?"

  "Really and truly yours. On the blessed Virgin." Riley swallowed the lump in his throat and lifted the cap from Jacob's hands, placing it on the lad's head at a jaunty angle. Just the way...

  He cleared his throat again and heard a sniffle from behind him, but he didn't look. He couldn't.

  "There now," he said, girding his resolve and squaring his shoulders. "Aren't you dapper wearing your own da's cap?"

  "Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph," Mum said quietly from behind them.

  "My... daddy's?" Jacob's lower lip trembled a bit and his green eyes were like giant shamrocks. "Really?"

  "Aye." Riley released a long, slow breath and placed his hand on Jacob's shoulder. "Now, let's go out and introduce you to Oíche, right proper like."

  "Who's that?"

  "My horse. Oíche means Midnight."

  "A real horse?"

  "Well, now, what would I be doing with a fake one, lad?"

  "A real horse!"

  "A real horse." Another smile tugged at Riley's mouth and at his heart as he reached for the doorknob. He looked back over his shoulder once and found all three women staring at him.

  Tears streamed down Mum's face, but he knew they were tears of joy, so he didn't worry. Maggie smiled with approval shining in her eyes.

  Bridget held her chin high and her lips pressed together tightly. She met his gaze with a bewildering expression. Was it still a mother's gratitude he saw shining in her eyes now?

  Or fear and suspicion?

  * * *

  Bridget chose her words with great care. Using the stationery Mrs. Larabee had given her, she asked Mr. Larabee the burning question that had plagued her since the moment she'd realized that Riley had accepted Jacob as Culley's son.

  Can the Mulligans take my son?

  She looked down at the light green paper, her eyes blurring and her hands trembling. For some reason, the moment Riley had referred to Jacob as Culley's son, Bridget's sense of security had shattered.

  But isn't that what you wanted?

  She leaned back in the chair at the small writing table in her room. The sun hadn't yet set and Jacob was still at the stable with his uncle.

  Riley had made no secret of his hatred for Bridget. Now that he'd accepted Culley's son, would he try to push Bridget out of Jacob's life?

  Would—could—he steal her child?

  Her fingers fluttered and she dropped the pen. It rolled across her desk and landed in her lap. She made no effort to retrieve it, but continued to stare at the words she'd written.

  She had to know her rights. This was a strange land and though the Mulligans were Culley's kin, they were still strangers to her. She trusted Fiona and Maggie. They wouldn't try to take Jacob.

  But what about Riley?

  If he truly believed Bridget had tricked Culley into her bed, would he consider her unfit to raise Jacob? Did he have that right? That power? What rights did uncles have in Ireland? With her husband dead, would Bridget have any defense if Riley chose to seek custody of his nephew?

  "Don't listen to yourself." She drew a shaky breath and collected her pen. Common sense demanded this wasn't possible. Jacob was her son—her life. No one could take him from her.

  However, a sinking sensation gripped her each time the thought crossed her mind. She had to ask Mr. Larabee. He was her friend and her lawyer. He would give her an honest answer. It might take weeks, though. For now, she would watch and listen.

  And worry.

  Forcing her hand to remain steady, she completed the letter and sealed the envelope. She would ask Maggie or Fiona where to mail it in the morning.

  She propped the envelope against a paperweight that boasted a shamrock encased in clear glass. Maybe it would bring her luck.

  When she'd first learned about the Mulligans and planned her trip to Ireland, she'd considered this the luckiest thing to have ever happened to her. Short of Jacob. Now... she wasn't so sure. She couldn't deny how fond she'd grown of Fiona and Maggie in just a few days. But Riley...

  Could she trust him with the most precious part of her life?

  If only she had some money of her own. That would give her independence, and a smidgen of power. Then if Riley did try anything underhanded, she wouldn't be helpless.

  She couldn't very well take a job in the village and leave Jacob here all day. What could she do to make money? Cook, of course. But where? Did anyone in Ballybronagh need a cook or housekeeper? The Larabees would give her a reference. She had no doubts there.

  She went back downstairs and heard the television in the parlor. Fiona and Maggie were both seated in front of the hearth, chuckling at a program. Feeling restless, Bridget slipped into the kitchen and stared out the window beside the back door. There was a good hour of daylight left.

  Across the meadow, she watched as a dark shape moved away from the house. Her heart swelled, pressing upward against her windpipe. Jacob was riding that gigantic horse.

  She saw Riley holding the reins, leading the horse, and her breath eased from her lungs. Now that Riley had accepted Jacob as his brother's son, she knew he would never allow any harm to come to the child. If only she could be as certain of Riley's intentions toward her.

  Remembering their earlier encounter at the castle, she looked at the dark image against the twilight. She'd tried to confront that stupid castle, but Riley had stopped her. She would never stop fearing it unless she faced it and gave it what for.

  Now was the perfect time. Riley was occupied, as were Fiona and Maggie. Her heart pounding in her ears, Bridget pulled her sweater close and slipped out the back door. As she walked across the meadow, her gaze was riveted to Caisleán Dubh. This was her hour of reckoning with that pile of rocks, and no one was going to stop her this time.

  Face what scares you, and give it heck, Granny had said.

  "All right, Granny," Bridget whispered as she marched around the castle's foundation for the second time today. "I'm doing it. Be proud of me."

  And, somehow, Bridget knew the old woman was smiling down on her from heaven, probably between rounds of Bingo. A smile of remembrance tugged at her lips and she knew she was doing the right thing.

  She kept her pace steady and tried not to look directly at the castle until she'd reached the front of it again. Then she put a fist on each hip and swung around to face the thing.

  As always, the sight of Caisleán Dubh gave her a jolt. She'd never get used to the size of it, but that wasn't what terrified her. It was something invisible. And powerful.

  "Now that's just nonsense." S
he shook her head and drew a deep breath, then released it in a loud whoosh. "Ready or not, Caisleán Dubh, here I am. Bridget Colleen Frye Mulligan, in the flesh."

  Icy wind circled around her and she blinked, but continued to stare at the closed doors. "I'm not afraid of you," she said, noting a slight quaver to her voice. "Well, dang it all, you're nothing but a pile of really old rocks."

  The whispering surrounded her, louder than before. More insistent. "What is that?" she whispered back. "Who are you? What are you?"

  A shudder rippled through her. Which would be worse? A who or a what? Granny had always said not to ask questions you didn't really want answered. "Forget that," she said, trying to sound flippant and failing.

  She sounded downright scared. Petrified. And of what? She was a Mulligan, albeit by marriage, and she had a perfect right to be here.

  "Are you trying to scare me away?" She lifted her chin, listening to the whispers. "Because I'm not going anywhere." She took another step toward the castle, keeping her breathing steady and her concentration on only one goal.

  Touching Caisleán Dubh.

  The whispering grew louder, and it sounded like many voices murmuring in different languages—nothing identifiable. All she knew was that the whispers, the ghosts, the castle—whatever—was trying to communicate something important.

  To her.

  "Why me?" She took half-a-dozen more steps until she stood within arm's length of the space beside the entrance. "I understand Riley and Culley, but why me?"

  She inched a bit closer, holding both hands chest high, palms open. The cold of the stone closed the distance between her and the castle. The whispering swirled around and through her.

  Beyond the point of no return, Bridget drew a great breath and leaned against the castle wall. Her palms touched it first, and the roughness of the cold stone felt somehow comforting—as if she'd achieved a long coveted goal. Well, in a way, she had.

  The stone seemed to warm beneath her hands and she moved closer, pressing her entire body against it. An ache commenced deep in her chest. She felt the pull of the castle, a calling of sorts. She belonged here. She was welcome. Wanted.