by Deb Stover
She smiled back and that soft look he'd noticed yesterday entered her eyes again. It tugged at something deep inside him and gave him pause. What he felt for Bridget was more than simple lust.
Though the lust he'd been feeling was anything but simple.
He rubbed the kink in the back of his neck again. "I spent too much time with my head bent over Brady's research."
Bridget put a lid on the pot and set her spoon aside. She adjusted the flame, and walked toward him. "Why is that?"
"Why is what?" he asked, so mesmerized by her nearness he'd forgotten his own words. He breathed in the scent of her and wanted more. So much more.
"Why were you going over Brady's notes?" she asked, clasping her hands in front of her.
Riley turned his head and a pain speared through his neck into the base of his skull. "Ow."
"Here." She pulled a chair out at the table. "Sit. Granny used to get a stiff neck from playing too much Bingo."
"What?" Riley didn't dare shake his head again. "Aye, I'll sit, but I don't understand what my stiff neck has to do with Bingo."
"Never mind." She wiped her hands on her apron and pointed to the chair. "Sit."
"Aye." Riley obeyed, anticipation zinging through him. She would touch him now, and knowing that made him ache inside—but not only his neck.
Her hands were cool against the stiff cords in the back of his neck. She massaged gently with her thumbs, then with the heels of both hands, working her way slowly down to the base and across his shoulders. He rotated his head to one side, groaning with pleasure as she found a particularly tender spot and worked the knots away.
"Your hands are magic," he whispered, the image of Bronagh cupping Aidan in her hands flashing unbidden to his mind. His breathing grew labored as Bridget continued to work her magic, relieved she couldn't see how pronounced his physical response really was.
Jaysus, but he wanted her.
The thought of Bronagh and Aidan had augmented his desire for Bridget, but he was convinced now that he would burn for her even without the dreams. Her hands stilled after a few minutes, though they remained on his shoulders.
He reached up and captured one hand in his and brought it to his lips. Tenderly, he planted a kiss in her palm and felt her shiver behind him.
"Riley..." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Hmm?" He kept his lips pressed to her palm and her other hand gripped his shoulder tighter.
"What... what are you doing to me?"
He half-turned and rose, keeping her hand in his. He brought his other hand to her cheek, caressing it with the backs of his fingers. "Why did you stay here?" he asked, realizing he hadn't paid much attention to that until now.
She looked down quickly, then lifted her chin and met his gaze. "To talk to you... about this."
"This?"
She nodded. "You're driving me crazy."
He had to chuckle at that. "And what do you think you've been doing to me?"
"Driving you crazy?" she asked, her smile tremulous.
"Aye." He slipped his arms around her waist very gently, and pressed his lips to hers. That wasn't nearly enough, and less than a breath later he brought her flush against him. Their kiss deepened, the softness of her mouth reminding him of another part of her body he wanted desperately to explore.
Reeling himself in with more strength than he'd believed he possessed, he released a long, shaky breath. "Bridget," he said, keeping his tone light, "you've set me on fire, lass."
"What are we going to do about that?" she repeated. "I... I..."
He swallowed hard and cupped her chin in his hand. "I'm listening." And keeping my hands off you will be the death of me yet.
"I want to... to make love with you," she said, her eyes wide and filled with a sincerity that stole his breath. "And... and..."
He could barely breathe. "And what?"
"You won't think I'm being silly?"
"Nothing about what I'm feeling right now could be called 'silly,' Bridget." He gave her a crooked grin. "I'd call it very serious indeed."
She blushed and returned his smile. After a moment, her expression grew solemn and she drew a deep breath. "Riley, I've been having dreams," she blurted.
Riley made a choking sound and bit the inside of his cheek. He brought his hands to her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Dreams about what?" He kept his voice calm, though inside he was anything but calm. His hormones performed a jig while his pulse played a reel. The beat of a bodhrán pounded through another part of him, echoing the rhythm of the very act he'd thought about day and night for weeks. "Your dreams, Bridget. Tell me."
He held his breath and waited, watching the fluctuating expression in her eyes. "Tell me," he urged.
"About you," she said, exhaling in a loud whoosh.
"What about me?" His mouth went dry.
"Sex," she whispered. "I've been dreaming about sex."
"And me?" Knowing they'd both been plagued with erotic dreams sent Riley's libido into a rage. He could barely speak. "Sex and me?" he repeated, his voice breaking.
She shook her head, holding his gaze, though her cheeks flamed crimson. "Sex with you."
Riley wanted to swing her into his arms and carry her up the stairs. No, to hell with that idea. He wanted to knock the pretty dishes off the table and take her there. Right there where she'd tortured him for weeks with her lovely breasts, sweet smile, and delicious food.
"Aren't you... aren't you going to say anything?" she asked, and her expression made it clear that her confession was one of the most difficult things she'd ever done. "Have I offended you?"
"Offended me, is it?" He almost laughed, but feared that might offend her. "Far from it, lass."
"I'm not a girl." She licked her lips. "I'm a woman."
"Aye." His gaze drifted down to her breasts and back to her eyes. "Aye, a woman in every way."
"I've never..." She bit her lower lip. "I've never wanted anyone since..."
Riley took a deep breath. "Since Culley."
"Yes." She shook her head. "I don't know what's come over me here. Maybe it's Ireland."
"Irishmen make the best lovers," he teased.
She smiled and lowered her lashes. He reached out and cradled her chin again, dying a little inside. He wanted desperately to tell her about his own dreams, but he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he understood the full magnitude of them.
But he wanted Bridget. Only Bridget. His dreams had nothing to do with that. But why was she dreaming about having sex with him?
The thought of it made the ache between his thighs intensify and his next breath was labored. "Bridget, you're killing me here."
The smile she gave him was filled with mischief. She reached down between them and pressed the heel of her hand against him. He throbbed against her and a groan erupted from deep in his chest.
"I'm glad I'm not the only one."
She walked away to finish cooking, leaving him there in a very bad way. Barely able to think, let alone walk, he called over his shoulder in an odd voice even to his own ears, "I'm off to take a shower, luv. A bloody cold one."
Her giggle followed him up the stairs. Unable to see straight, he crashed his skull into that fecking beam again and cursed.
She giggled louder.
* * *
Well, she'd told him. Bridget finished preparing supper while Riley cooled off. The thought brought a smile to her lips and warmth to the rest of her.
He wanted her, too, and hadn't seemed totally shocked by her confession. Now what were they going to do about it? Neither of them had discussed that. In fact, they'd both skirted around the subject.
What was there to discuss? Either they would or they wouldn't.
Bridget's cheeks flamed and her hands trembled as she set the serving platters on the table. She went to the bottom of the steps and called to let Riley know supper was ready. As an afterthought, she reminded him to watch out for the beam on his way back.
He thanked her
and started down the steps. Every step brought him closer to her. She would have to face him again after her confession. Of course, she'd known that, but it had to be done.
But now what?
Maybe that was all it would take. Her dreams would end and she'd turn her attention to opening Mulligan Stew. Problem solved.
He emerged from the stairway with his damp hair curling around his face. He'd shaved, too. The shirt he wore was a rich blue. She didn't remember seeing it before. It matched his eyes.
Problem not solved.
She'd opened a bottle of wine to breathe. Maggie had told her it was homemade from some kind of berries, though she didn't know what. She'd also told Bridget that Mum sometimes sipped it for her gout.
Bridget had to smile, wondering if she could make wine from cherries.
Riley saw the wine and the crystal and raised an eyebrow. "It looks good."
"It's nothing fancy—just fried chicken, and before you pick up your knife and fork, let me tell you that where I come from, fried chicken is finger food."
"I'm not a fancy kind of man," he said, pulling out a chair for her. He quirked an eyebrow. "And did you fetch the chicken from the yard yourself?"
She shook her head, grinning. "There are chickens at the market."
He smiled, watching her. Just having him look at her set her heart aflutter. The thought of having him touch her again set her on fire.
Problem definitely not solved.
Bridget made sure the stove was off and removed her apron. On knees made of rubber bands, she lowered herself into the chair. Riley brushed her shoulder with his hand after he'd pushed in her chair.
She sighed, but resisted the urge to grab his hand and put it on her breast. Wouldn't that have shocked him?
Looking across the table at him as he took his seat, she noted the gleam in his eyes had transformed them from blue to cobalt. There was an intensity about him this evening that stole her breath and had her libido doing the twist to an Elvis tune like she had with Granny as a little girl.
She uncovered the platter of crispy chicken and passed it to him. "Dark or white?" she asked.
His gaze left the platter and dropped to her chest. "I've always been a breast man."
"Oh, mercy." Bridget almost dropped the platter, but he reached out to help her ease it back to the table. "You're a dangerous man, Riley Mulligan."
He remained silent as he served himself a crispy chicken breast, a mound of mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, and some of the fried cabbage he loved. He added a biscuit to his plate and looked across the table at her.
"Not yet," he whispered.
"Not yet what?"
"Dangerous." He bit into the chicken breast, tearing the tender meat away from the bone, and chewed very slowly before swallowing. "I'm not promising anything, though."
"Promising?"
"You're starting to sound like a parrot, Bridget." He grinned again and served her since she hadn't bothered to fill her own plate. "Eat up now. You need to keep up your strength, luv."
Luv? She drew a deep breath to quell her trembling. "Promises, promises," she whispered, wondering where she'd found the nerve to say such a thing.
He threw back his head and laughed. The joyousness of it filled the kitchen and Bridget's heart. "Something about you has definitely changed," she said as his laughter subsided. "For the better."
He grew solemn and nodded, eating very slowly. Between his first and second breast—mercy—he told Bridget that he'd followed her advice about something.
"About what?" she asked, barely tasting her own food.
"The past." An expression of resignation settled across his handsome face. "I faced it. Accepted it."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. "I'm glad," she whispered. "Very glad."
They sipped their wine and he asked about the sourdough she'd used to prepare the breading on the chicken and for the biscuits. Bridget prattled on about the methods she'd used to prepare the food and why, realizing as he helped her clear the table that he'd done it to distract her. She was thankful for that.
But soon she knew they would discuss their dilemma again. Now that it was out in the open, they couldn't very well bury it again. Not comfortably anyway.
Nothing about this was the least bit comfortable. He insisted on washing the gigantic iron frying pan for her, so she wiped the table and stood staring out the kitchen window. The sun slowly sank beyond Caisleán Dubh, creating almost a halo around the tower.
"Riley, look."
He came to stand beside her, drying his hands on a towel. "Jaysus. I've never seen it look like that."
She took his hand. "Let's go down there. It's a lovely evening, and I want to see it again."
He winced, blinked several times. "Aye, get your jumper while I fetch the flashlight."
"No, not the flashlight," she said, grabbing what was left of the wine and two glasses. "Candles."
Riley sucked in a breath. "That could be dangerous."
"I thought you said you weren't dangerous."
"Yet."
"Well... I wasn't thinking about that," she said, though she probably had been, at least subconsciously. "I made tarts for dessert. We can be the very first customers in Mulligan Stew's dining room."
"I'm still a bit uncomfortable there," he admitted. "But I'd better get used to it."
"Yes." She looked out the window again. "I feel a powerful sense of... belonging there. It's very strange."
His voice sounded very odd. "Then I say let's do it."
Bridget whirled around to stare at his face. Which "it" did he mean?
There's only one way to find out....
Chapter 19
Caisleán Dubh had never looked more beautiful. Considering Riley had once considered it the most terrifying of places, thinking of it as beautiful was a concept it would take some time to get his mind around.
The woman walking at his side, on the other hand, would outshine any castle. He wanted to hold her hand, but he was loaded down with wine and a blanket. She carried a basket with the candles, dishes, and their dessert.
This was madness. He chewed on that thought in silence, then had to wonder if it was, really. After all, Bridget would be opening a restaurant in Caisleán Dubh. Folks would be eating more than tarts there, and probably by candlelight. What was wrong with a bit of pretending if it made her happy?
Aye, and wasn't she glowing with happiness just now? The closer they came to Caisleán Dubh, the happier Bridget grew. She was the most perplexing woman, and the most desirable.
What was he to do about her? She'd dreamed about him. About him. It was bloody vexing, to say the least.
And the highest form of flattery.
It had taken more courage than he would ever have for her to make such a confession. After all, he hadn't told her about his dreams of Aidan and Bronagh.
A thought took root in his mind and refused to budge. Were they sharing their dreams? Did she believe her dreams were of him, when they were really of Aidan? The thought that he wasn't the man of her dreams grated on him. Shite. Was such a thing even possible? It sounded completely mad.
Of course, believing in a curse or spell didn't sound exactly sane. Despite his hope that the spell could be broken, the nagging questions about why and how his da had died continued to plague him. If only he knew for sure what had killed Da. If only...
"Isn't it amazing?" Bridget asked as they paused before the entrance.
"Aye, I'll grant you that." He watched her from the corner of his eye. "As are you."
"I think you've kissed the Blarney stone," she said, heading toward the opening. "It's a pity we can't open the doors ourselves."
"Not without some heavy equipment, I'm afraid." Though Riley was hard enough now to possibly manage it on his own. Ouch.
She edged sideways through the opening with far more ease than he would, but she was much smaller. "I'm thinking maybe a wall of leaded windows and French doors should replace the
se monsters. They'll have to complement the historical integrity of the whole place, though."
"Aye, that sounds like a good plan," he said, following her inside, and wondering why the whispers hadn't greeted them. The silence was odd. Disconcerting. Bridget didn't seem to have noticed. Perhaps she still heard them.
After spreading the blanket out near the hearth, he lit the candles she'd placed in the small alcoves that flanked Aidan's portrait, far enough away to prevent any accidents, yet close enough to offer a cheery glow.
You've lost it, Mulligan—a "cheery glow" in this place?
Aye, but it was. He raked his fingers through his hair, watching Bridget set out plates and wineglasses. She perched herself on a corner of the blanket and held her hand out to display her work. "Dessert is served, sir."
His gasp echoed off the walls and she laughed at him. Laughed! How often had he thought of her as dessert? "Why are you laughing?" he asked, positioning himself as comfortably as possible, and wishing he'd left his belt in his closet. It pinched something awful.
"I don't have to answer that question," she whispered in a sultry tone that rippled through him. She passed him a plate bearing a tart. "It could prove incriminating."
He held his breath, watching her work while bathed in candlelight. After pouring them each a glass of wine, she nibbled at her tart in silence. After a few bites, she licked her fingers.
And almost killed him.
He wanted to lick her fingers. Her neck. Her breasts. Her navel. Her—
Jaysus.
"What's wrong, Riley?" she asked. "You aren't eating. I expect all the customers in my restaurant to leave happy and fulfilled. Eat."
Fulfilled? Aye, just what he had in mind, but only she could provide the sort of fulfillment he craved.
Ignoring his fork, he picked up the tart with his fingers and took a huge bite, chewing as he stared at her sipping her wine. The tart was cheese and filled his mouth with creamy sweetness. He popped the last bit into his mouth and stacked their plates and forks, dropping them into the basket while still chewing.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting these out of the way," he said, his voice husky.
