by Deb Stover
Between the stunt Jacob had pulled this morning and the long evening of music and laughter, they were all tired. Bridget yawned and shook her head. She would see the castle again, and she would do it tonight.
She looked at the tower's dark shape, barely visible across the meadow. Caisleán Dubh called to her. Beckoned, really.
It all sounded downright crazy, but she couldn't explain it. She wasn't crazy, but there was something about her that was connected to this castle. That certainty had continued to grow within her until she'd had no choice but to accept it.
Granny would've called her "tetched." Well, she was "tetched," but not in the head. She pressed the heel of her hand to her breastbone. In her heart. Her soul.
Maybe I really am crazy.
She shook her head and smiled. A logical woman would wait for the inspector, but she was feeling anything but logical. She bit her lower lip and tried to convince herself to wait, but in the end she pulled on her cardigan and grabbed the flashlight she'd found in the shed.
Quietly, she tiptoed down the front staircase—farther from Riley's room—and back through the kitchen to the door. She remembered that the front door had a squeak that might ruin everything.
If Riley knew what she was doing, he would raise all kinds of old Billy Hell. Whatever that meant. Granny had said it all the time, but Bridget really had no idea who or what Billy Hell was. Maybe it had something to do with that Billy Beer Grandpa had hated so much.
Billy Hell or not, Bridget had a mission.
Once outside, she switched on the flashlight and started across the meadow. She followed the path that had been worn between the house and the stables, knowing that another path continued on toward the road and Caisleán Dubh from there.
She looked up at the tower thrusting toward the night sky and smiled. The whispering started again, surrounding her, filling her, calling her.
The castle wanted her. Maybe it even needed her. All Bridget knew was that she needed it. She lengthened her stride and crossed the road, smiling as she remembered the first time she'd walked this close to Caisleán Dubh.
She'd been frightened enough to dang-near wet her pants.
How quickly things changed. She drew a deep breath, rounded the corner nearest the entrance, and paused. The whispering sounded almost like singing now. She moved toward the opening and pressed her cheek against the rough doors.
"Home," she whispered. At least, it felt like home. She'd never been to Ireland or Caisleán Dubh before, but knew she belonged here. Right here. Right now.
After a moment, she drew a deep breath and steadied herself, aiming her flashlight at the same opening she'd passed through this morning in search of Jacob. Mostly, she saw dust. Something scurried across the floor and she followed it with the flashlight. A mouse?
Bridget was not afraid of mice. Snakes were another matter, but they ate mice. However, hadn't Saint Patrick driven the snakes out of Ireland?
"Stop it, Bridget." She rolled her eyes at her own silliness and slipped through the opening, clearing the jagged stones with ease. The flashlight beam was broad enough to create a good sweep of the room. When she found the staircase curving toward the tower, her breath caught.
It looked... familiar? She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to figure out how the staircase could look familiar. Had she seen something in a book or magazine? Nothing made sense or connected. Finally, she shrugged and opened her eyes to continue her exploration.
Huge paintings hung along the walls. They were covered with dust and cobwebs, but those could be cleaned. Perhaps the canvas had remained undamaged beneath the grime. Would she find portraits of Mulligans who'd lived centuries ago? The thought made her pulse quicken as she walked to the side of the chamber opposite the staircase.
The temptation to climb those stairs was too great, but she didn't want to risk injury. If she disappeared, Riley would find her inside the castle, and, well, there'd be old Billy Hell again.
She shined the light up at a painting over the hearth. It was massive, easily as tall as a grown man. Dust, damp salty air, and age had nearly obliterated the image, though she could tell it was a painting of a person standing. The frame was heavy gold with an intricate design.
She reached for the bottom of the frame and the whispering grew more frantic, as if urging her to touch it. "Now I'm really being silly." Besides, she couldn't quite reach it without a stepladder.
Archways led to other rooms—some with heavy, planked doors and some without. The floor beneath her feet was made from some kind of stone, too. Perhaps after all the layers of filth were removed, she would learn it was marble. The thought of a clean marble floor with massive tables covered with Irish lace tablecloths exploded in her mind. She would hire a musician to play the harp, or maybe even Riley would play some quiet music one night.
The thought of Riley destroyed the image. He would never do anything to support her dream, though he had agreed to the inspection.
Under duress.
Bridget grinned, remembering her son's outrageous blackmail attempt. Well, it had been more than an attempt. Perhaps there was more Frye in that boy than she'd realized.
Her thoughts returned to Riley—the way he'd shown Jacob to hold the fiddle, and how patiently he'd tolerated the ungodly screeching her son had produced. To make matters worse, the man was unbelievably handsome, and Bridget suspected he didn't even realize it. That made him all the more appealing to her.
And dangerous.
She would never forget the way he'd touched her that night in the meadow. And how desperately she'd wanted him to kiss her.
And more.
"Enough of that." She drew a deep breath and sneezed.
Focusing again on her mission, she circled the perimeter of the room, not venturing into any others now. It wouldn't kill her to wait for the inspector before seeing the rest of the castle.
She'd just needed to confirm her belief that Caisleán Dubh could be restored. So far, she'd seen nothing to make her believe otherwise.
Again, her gaze and the flashlight drifted toward the massive, curving staircase. The banister was intricately carved. Perspiration coated her flesh and her mouth went dry as she approached it. Touched it.
Her breath froze in her throat and her entire body went rigid. "Oh, my God." Memories of her most recent dream flashed through her brain like a slide show.
The man—her dream lover—had touched her. She rested her hand over her breast. He'd kissed her. She brought trembling fingers to her mouth. He'd suckled her until she'd nearly wept from the pleasure of his warm mouth tugging at her aching breasts.
Fire pulsed through her. The images grew more detailed, and she felt him touching her. Weak with desire, she fell to her knees at the base of the steps, clutching her flashlight in one hand and the banister in the other.
Her private parts contracted against her sharp need. She tugged at her sweater, suddenly wanting to be free of it and all her clothing. Then he could touch all of her again.
She wrenched her cardigan off and flung it to the dusty floor. Too many barriers still separated her from him. He was here. She felt him waiting for her.
Wanting her.
She pulled the clip from her hair. His fingers combed through the tresses until they tumbled about her shoulders. Her pullover sweater slipped over her head at his urging, though she wasn't sure if she'd done it or he had.
She couldn't think.
All she could do was want.
And need.
He pulled her to her feet and leaned her back over the banister, tasting her bra-covered nipple with hungry lips, his sharp teeth nipping her through the fabric. She wanted more. So much more.
He cupped her breast in one hand, holding her with one strong arm behind her waist. Her breast swelled into his mouth, urging him to drink from her, to take her to a place she'd never been before.
Strong hands gripped her waist and hauled her against a rock hard body. Something was different, though hunger still
pulsed within her. The flashlight was at her feet, shining up at the man who held her so roughly.
His eyes gleamed with colorless intensity. The planes and angles of his features were hard, as if chiseled from the same substance as the banister.
"What the devil are you doing here?" he asked.
That voice. This man spoke English. Familiar. Bridget tried to force her mind and her desire into synch, but all she could think about was being touched. Kissed. Wanted.
"The whispering," he said so softly she barely heard him.
"I hear it," she said, pressing her hips against his, and groaning as his hard, heated length throbbed in response.
With a growl, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her back outside.
Chapter 13
Riley was mad. Angry.
Horny.
Since the second he'd lain eyes on Bridget, all he'd been able to think or dream about was having a bit of a ride. More than a bit.
Admit it, Mulligan—you're like a bull in autumn after the nearest heifer.
He'd gone for an innocent walk and seen a light shining through the shuttered windows. Afraid Jacob had snuck out of the house for another adventure, Riley had raced into Caisleán Dubh for the second time on this fecked up day.
To find Bridget—not the lad—writhing in what appeared to be the throes of, well, ecstasy.
Shite.
After the sizzling dreams Riley'd been having of late—not to mention lusting after Bridget while awake—finding her thus had unhinged him.
A shudder of longing rippled through him as he lowered her to the ground before him, her delectable body sliding along the length of his until she landed on her feet and swayed toward him. The castle's infernal whispering circled him—them—driving him to keep her snug against him. Their hearts thudded in unison, echoing in regions below their waists, and their breath came in short, ragged gasps.
"Kiss me," she invited, her breath warm against his cheek.
Jaysus, how he wanted her. He inched closer to her mouth—her soft, full, tempting mouth. He'd resisted the powerful urge to kiss her for days, but once he'd entered the castle, any semblance of control had burst. Vanished. Dissipated. He'd merely touched her about the waist at first, but her response had left him defenseless to her charms.
Aye, and weren't her charms desirable?
Poor Culley had surely lost before the battle had even begun. And Riley was no better, no stronger.
He swallowed hard as Bridget rubbed herself against him, driving him mad with the hunger that had become as much a part of him as the air he breathed since the moment he'd first lain eyes on the cailleach.
Cailleach? Aye, she was a witch, a goddess, a temptress—all rolled into a package he craved more than air and water and decency.
He cupped her chin in his hand, none too gently, tilting her head back to bring her lips to just the right angle. When he'd found her writhing and moaning—and alone—he'd gone mad with need. He wanted nothing more than to satisfy her longing. And his.
In fact, he couldn't imagine not doing just that. Now. Here on the earth itself at the castle's base, with the whispering whirring mercilessly about them. Aye, he would kiss this woman at last, and he would do a bloody fine job of it.
With a single powerful tug, he brought her even more fully against him, her softness melding deliciously with his hardness. Oh, aye, and had he ever been as hard as he was now? Heat spiraled through him, culminating right between his thighs. He groaned in agony and anticipation.
She rotated her pelvis against him again. He growled as he lowered her to the ground and fell atop her, hovering over her for several moments of pure torture. Their breaths mingled; their hearts thudded in unison. Time stopped.
Then he kissed her. Oh, but he shouldn't have. The moment his lips met hers, he was lost. She was not only the most tempting woman he'd ever met, she was the sweetest tasting. He claimed her mouth, parted her lips, staked his claim of her with each thrust of his tongue.
And his tongue wasn't the only part of him with a mind toward thrusting.
Blood sizzled along his veins, converging between his thighs. He couldn't think. He couldn't reason. He couldn't effing breathe.
All he could do was want and need. He had a bad case of what Gilhooley called Irish craving. After all, it was common knowledge that Irishmen made the best lovers.
And Riley desperately wanted the chance to prove that to Bridget. For a fleeting moment, he remembered that he wasn't her first Irish lover, but raging passion defeated logic.
Her mouth was warm. Moist. Sweet. He explored the smoothness of her teeth, the silkiness of her tongue, the warmth of her palate. He needed her like he needed his next meal. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.
For her.
For Bridget.
The castle's whispering spun around him like a devil wind, driving him closer to the brink. He couldn't hold himself back. He would take her here in the sand like a rutting beast, and he would like it.
Nay, he would savor it.
Mad with the lust thrumming through him, Riley filled his hands with her breasts. He'd never admired a woman's breasts more than Bridget's. He wanted to taste them. He wanted them naked and pressed against his chest while he rode her hard and deep and long.
Gasping, he broke their kiss, licking his way along the side of her throat, resting for an instant at the base. He pressed her breasts together, just now noticing that she wore only a bra and her jeans. He had no idea where her jumper had gone and he didn't care.
All he knew was he had to get rid of all the physical barriers separating them. He wanted her flesh against his. He wanted to feel her smoothness against his roughness. He wanted it all.
And he wanted it now.
He reached behind her and released the tricky clasp on her bra. She wriggled free of the wretched thing and he froze above her just as the moon rose above the tower of Caisleán Dubh. Bathed in silver, her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing, her nipples dark and erect against the plump, silvery firmness.
He made a sound that dangerously resembled a whimper as he lowered his face between her luscious breasts and inhaled her essence. Then he kissed his way up the inner slope and circled the sweet nub with his tongue. He trembled over her, wanting this so much it frightened him.
Riley Mulligan had feared only one thing in his life. Before Bridget.
The Curse.
Feck the Curse. All he wanted was this woman, this temptress. Sex! He drew her deeply into his mouth, moaning with pleasure as he tasted her sweetness. He'd never desired a woman more.
Never wanted to act on that desire less.
He burned for her. Burned with a need so fierce he couldn't fight it. His blood bubbled through his veins, driving him to find the release that he knew only Bridget could provide. No other woman would ever sate this mad hunger.
Not in Shannon. Not anywhere.
Not ever.
"Sweet," he murmured against her, brushing his thumb against her other nipple.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him against her. He rocked against the cradle of her womanhood, wanting so much more. Just thinking about burying himself within her heated folds was enough to make him shudder and throb against her. She squirmed and writhed and whimpered, pleading with him to take her, to fill her.
That did it.
He reached between them and released the snap and zipper of her jeans, shoving them down her slim hips. She squirmed and attempted to assist him, making supremely sexual sounds of encouragement.
He was a dead man.
For a fleeting moment, he thought of Culley. And empathized. His brother had fallen victim to this woman at a much younger age than Riley.
And Riley couldn't resist her either—didn't want to....
One leg of her jeans lay impotently beneath her, while the other was still in place. He slid his hand inside her plain cotton drawers and found her mound beneath the tight curls. Lower s
till, he found her hot and moist as he discovered the center of her desire and stroked until her hips left the ground to meet him.
"Take me," she said, her voice barely more than a strangled whisper. "I want you. I want you." She rocked her pelvis as a woman did with a man buried to the hilt within her. "I want you inside me."
Oh, Jaysus.
She couldn't have known he would find her moaning and writhing, alone and undressed, in the castle. She couldn't have known he would need to finish what her imagination had begun. Could she?
Did he care?
No. Right now, all he cared about was surrounding himself with her heat, her softness, her womanhood. He would die if he couldn't.
He dipped one finger inside her, felt her muscles contract around him. Sucking in a breath, he held it until he brought the urge to explode right here and now under control. Barely. She contracted, drawing his finger deeper inside her. He slid two more in to join the first, mimicking the very action he ached to do with another, much larger, much needier, part of his body.
He was going to explode if he couldn't do it now. She'd driven him mad with this constant craving since the day she'd arrived. He'd go off his nut and lose what remained of his mind if he couldn't join with her now. As he so desperately wanted. Needed. Must.
He had to have her.
Possess her.
Love her.
Love? He tore himself away, pulled his trembling hand from inside her drawers, and stared down at her passion-stricken features. The moonlight gave her a surreal appearance, making her even more beautiful.
"Shite," he said, his voice harsh in the night. "Cailleach. Witch." She'd cast a bloody spell on him.
The only other sounds were the waves crashing against the rocks below, and the infernal whispering of Caisleán Dubh. The castle seemed determined to drive him toward the biggest mistake of his life.
Toward his brother's wife.
But when he gazed upon her bathed in moonlight, he didn't see Culley's wife or Jacob's mum. He saw Bridget—the woman who'd turned his life arseways and topsy-turvy.
And he wanted her. Only her.
* * *
The fire pulsing through Bridget almost hurt. No, it did hurt. She needed Riley to fill her so full she would never want again. He stretched her with his fingers, but that wasn't enough. She wanted more.
