by Dorien Kelly
Chapter Fifteen
Desire makes hunting.
—IRISH PROVERB
“Rubbish and more rubbish,” Vi decreed.
Of course she had no one with whom to share the critique of the two canvases she’d created, as Pat and Danny had rescued Roger from the studio the day before. At least she thought it had been the day before, but she wouldn’t wager much on it. Time had a way of fleeing while she worked.
Vi tried to tame her hair into a knot, then sniffed the air suspiciously. Something smelled a bit ripe. It might have been herself or it might have been an item among the food moldering away atop her glass display case by the cash register. She’d meant to tuck the offerings her brothers had delivered into the small fridge hidden in the back room, but had gotten sidetracked. She’d also stopped answering the phone and had in fact unplugged it, as she could bear no interruptions when consumed by an idea.
Unfortunately, it seemed that in this instance she had done the idea-consuming, then spat it out as two rather frantic and disjointed paintings. Hands on hips, she glared at her works. She planned to create four seasonal pieces—souls celebrating round bonfires burning on the riverbank near Castle Duneen. These first two, with Beltaine’s watery springtime lushness and Samhain’s crisp autumn shades, should have been the easiest to capture. It seemed, though, that putting the idea on canvas was the first step toward disappointment. Milky Imbolc and wild Lughnasa bonfires were still forming—or was it festering?—in her imagination.
She remained enamored of the concept, if not the execution. What better than community blazes of rebirth for a castle once burned? But her theme hadn’t carried through clearly, for matters of personal passion wouldn’t let her be. She was haunted by a man very much alive.
Physically, she might have left Liam in County Kilkenny, but someone had forgotten to inform her subconscious. The seductive heat of his kisses, the deep sound of his laughter when she would toss a comment his way, and the way he had of making her feel alive to her core…all had followed her to Ballymuir. And now she wanted him to be here, too.
If she closed her eyes, she could envision Liam down to his cuticles. And she could paint him to perfection, too—just nothing bloody else, it seemed.
“You’re mad,” she said to herself. “Not that it’s any great news.”
Deciding that a quick wash-up might change her outlook, Vi went to the small bathroom located in the back corner of the studio. She did the best she could with a toothbrush, a bar of lavender-and-thyme soap, and a sink too small to be of practical use. At least she could now bear her own scent. She left the shirt and brassiere she’d been wearing on the studio floor and pulled a well-spotted painting shirt over bare skin.
Buttoning as she walked, Vi passed a half-dozen other efforts on silk and canvas that in the past weeks she’d abandoned like changeling infants in the forest of her cluttered studio. She would not look at them, would not acknowledge the power they held over her with their failed faces.
She switched on the radio and listened for a bit of chat that might give her the day. Then, she returned to her Samhain canvas, which was still not quite spoiled, and looked again.
“All over too orange,” she said. “Yet fixable.”
Vi had just gone to her palette when a jingle of the bells tied to her front door signaled an intruder.
“Did I not tell you to let me be?” she called over her shoulder to whichever of her brothers had developed the desire to be flayed alive. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to be brought home.”
They knew her well, her brothers. Along with Roger’s company, they had also deprived her of her car. Experience had taught them that she’d be a hazard on the roads when she was finally exhausted enough to stop work.
“I was under the impression that you’d not be calling me at all,” Liam Rafferty said.
In that moment, words failed Vi even more dismally than her art. She spun to face him.
Ah, but the sight of him made her knees grow soft and her heart softer. If she were the least arrogant about her envisioning abilities, she might believe that she’d wished him here. She wasn’t, though. He was here of his own accord and appeared none too pleased to have it so.
“You didn’t read the sign on the door?” she finally managed to work from muddled mind to mouth.
“It was in Irish,” he said, “which was never my language of choice.”
“Still, I’m sure you recall that dúnta means closed.”
He strode closer, all clean and fresh and bloody well reeking of confidence.
“You forgot this,” he said, dropping her patchwork bag at her feet. “And you forgot this, too.”
He kissed her, thoroughly, deeply, and with an utter boldness that angered her as surely as it aroused.
“You owed me that for goodbye,” he said when he’d finished.
She needed to regain her balance or her heart would be forever lost.
“I owed you that?” she asked. “And what might you deserve in the way of a welcome? Me on my knees before those fine shoes of yours?”
Liam laughed. “Reading my mind again, are you? Or maybe it’s just an insight regarding men in general. No matter,” he said, then began to stroll a loop around her studio. He touched a soft weaving adorned with seashells that she’d collected and gave a nod of approval.
“How long have you been here?” he asked when he reached her rather pungent food remains.
An easy enough question, most of the time. “What day is it?”
“Monday,” he replied, a measure of surprise registering on his distinctive features.
“Really?” Another day had indeed slipped past her.
“It’s not the sort of thing worth lying about, now is it? So how long?”
“Since Friday afternoon.”
“And you slept here?” he asked, then with the tip of one shoe, nudged the tattered green futon she’d earlier spread on the floor.
Their gazes locked, and if emotion were a visible thing, Vi would find their sexual awareness a brighter crimson than the flames she’d painted.
“I’ve slept now and again,” she replied.
“You must be wanting your bed.”
Before she could frame an answer, he’d gone to stand in front of her two new canvases.
“Don’t look at them,” she said, alarm making her voice ring sharply in her ears.
“Why not?”
“They’re not fit.” And if he looked closely, he’d find himself in both paintings, along with the impossible bit of wishcraft of her at his side. In all, running naked through Ballymuir would create less exposure than what her brushes had produced.
“The paintings look fit enough to me.” In spite of his words, he turned away, leaving Vi to gather her dignity.
“Did you think you could just leave Duncarraig?” he asked an instant later.
The jump in conversation brought her fully alert. Though he’d said Duncarraig, he’d meant himself. The fewer words, the better, in response.
“I couldn’t stay anymore. I’ve a life that needs tending.”
“As do we all. My complaint, Violet, is with the way you left.”
Violet. He used the word to incite, but she would not be so easily played. “I apologized in my note. Quite nicely, too, I thought.”
“You did,” he said, prowling closer. “In a bland sort of way. Very tellingly unlike you.”
“Tellingly? What do you mean by that?”
“Later,” he said. “First, I want that welcome kiss, and then I want you in your bed…on the floor…against those unfit paintings. It doesn’t matter, so long as I’m inside you.”
She shivered when he touched her face and then the curve of her lower lip.
“Here, then?” he asked, flicking open the buttons of her shirt.
Vi fumbled to cover what he exposed. “I haven’t showered in days.”
“I don’t care.”
She laughed. “But I do. I can scarcely bear myself.”<
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He kissed her once, then again, quick persuasive nips. “Let me take you home. Now.”
This would solve nothing. She would leave his arms as incapable of addressing their problems as she was at this moment. And yet she gave the answer that her easy heart dictated.
“Yes,” she said.
Liam had been put out with the dog. Of the two of them, Roger seemed far more content with the situation. Liam had angled to be in Vi’s shower, but had been told in blunt terms that as she actually planned to get clean, she would be doing it alone, thank you. He could tend to the royal hound.
While herself’s dog sniffed about the back fence line, Liam turned up his jacket’s collar and did his best to ignore the chill wind sweeping up the hillside from Dingle Bay. Roger, who wore a warmer coat, circled a low shrub once and then again in reverse, as though the act were part of a ritual.
Thinking he might as well put his time banished to good use, Liam pulled his cell phone from his pocket and readied to put through a call to Muir House, where he and Meggie were staying. The elegant manor house and restaurant, owned by an expatriate American chef named Jenna Gilvane, was hardly what he’d expected to find in this quiet part of County Kerry. It seemed, though, that others had found it, for even now, in the tail end of November, it was booked nearly to capacity.
After some persuasion and name-dropping of the Kilbride variety, he and Meggie had taken up residence in a two-bedroom suite on the top floor. Meggie had immediately embarked on a reconnaissance mission, certain she’d spotted some movie star named Sam walking the grounds.
Liam dialed Muir House and was quickly connected to his rooms. Meggie picked up after two rings.
“Have you called your mother as promised, love?” he asked after greeting her.
“Yeah, but I couldn’t find her, so I left a message. And you’ll never believe it, but I did see Sam Olivera, just like I told you. His girlfriend is the owner’s sister, and they’re so nice. He even gave me his autograph when I asked, and then they invited me to go with them for a bike ride to the village in a little while. Can I go? There’s bikes for the guests and I promise I’ll even wear one of those geeky helmets. Say yes, or I swear I’ll die right here.”
It was a near miracle, how she’d managed to fit all those words in one breath. “Mind the traffic, such as it is, and be sure you’re back before dusk. We’ll be eating in the restaurant tonight. The owner’s invited us to a special dinner.”
“So you mean I can go to the village?”
“Yes.”
“You are the coolest dad ever! Hey, I gotta go find my camera.” She hung up before Liam could say anything more, which was fine as his ability to concentrate was fading. He again pocketed his phone and settled one hand on the back door’s knob.
“Ready yet?” he asked Roger, who seemed to be exhibiting a certain amount of canine glee in taking his time. Just as Liam was ready to go chase down the beast, he trotted up the steps.
“Glad to see you could work me into your schedule,” Liam said to the dog, then closed them both inside.
Vi’s modern house was an unremarkable white stucco on the outside. The interior, however, was as exotic as its owner. The walls were rich jewel-toned hues, and some had quotes painted upon them. The words were in Irish, naturally, and Liam’s skills weren’t up to accurate translations. He could catch a few bits, such as tine, which, as he recalled, meant fire, and farraige, which was the seaside.
The air carried a fragrant scent, too, of cloves, perhaps, and some flower he couldn’t identify, except that it brought to mind wild pleasure on silken sheets. Of course, the scent of Roger’s kibble might well trigger the same thoughts at this moment.
Seeking distraction, Liam returned to the canvases he’d noticed leaning three-deep against the walls of the back hallway, all unframed and clearly unattended. He flipped through the stacks and marveled at Vi’s talent.
Some works were detailed, reminding him of the fire paintings he’d looked at in her studio until she’d chased him off. Others were more abstract, like that of Castle Duneen above Nora’s mantel. But all were stamped with Vi’s perspective and singularity of vision. Liam had no idea why she would be treating art this arresting as though it was queued up to be put out with the rubbish.
He was about to go through the canvases again, but a new, muted sound distracted him—that of Vi singing. Her voice lured him inward. Through the front room he walked, where Roger had settled on a small sofa in front of the fireplace. Liam ventured down a hallway until he came to a closed door, which he knew had to be the bathroom. There was no sound of water running, just that of her bright song.
“Vi?” He rapped on the door, hoping now, at least, for an invitation to enter.
“Don’t even think of coming in,” he received in answer. “My bedroom’s the next room down. Go on in, but do keep Roger out. He’s a bit of a voyeur.”
Liam glanced toward the front room where he’d last seen the dog, but he needn’t have looked so far, as Roger was at his heels.
“Think again, boyo. It’s the sofa for you,” he said when the dog tried to slink in the bedroom door. When working up a profession of love, the last thing a man needed was a wee beast laughing at him. Just then, Vi’s clear tones of amusement came his way. Though of course, he mentally added, a woman’s laughter would be a thousand times worse.
Vi stood in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to quell her smile and manufacture an acceptable pucker. She knew she was being ridiculous, trying to apply lip color that would be gone minutes from now, and doing a clown-poor job of it, too. But after the days locked in the studio, she looked like the dead. Even a vigorous scrubbing in the shower had done little to get her blood moving.
For the first time in her life she wished for wildly extravagant silken lingerie. Hand-stitched, French, and deep green in color would be quite grand. Naturally she had none, so the white of her skin would have to be adornment enough. She took one last glance at her face in the minuscule mirror and then gave a shake of her head so that her curls would tumble wilder yet over her shoulders.
“Fine enough for a dead woman,” she said, then left the steamy warmth of the bathroom. At the bedroom door, she gave Rog a quick pat on his head, then slipped inside, leaving her hound in the hall.
Liam had turned back her bedcovers and lay there, as naked as she. The pleasure Vi got from looking at him made even her feet tingle. Liam’s pleasure was far more obvious. He was hard for her, and she longed to take him in her hands.
“Grand, isn’t it,” she said as she prowled toward him, “us being past the age where we need to be coy?”
Never one to deprive herself pleasure offered, she settled on the mattress’s edge and touched him. He didn’t move his hands from behind his head where he had them casually cushioned, but she wasn’t for a moment fooled. She knew what it cost him to hold back, as she was spending the same in not simply flinging herself on him.
“I don’t recall you ever bothering with artifice,” he said.
She smiled as she noted the slight hitch to his voice. “Aye, you’re right. All that nonsense was too much work to manufacture, and only took away from the time we had to be doing this.”
She crawled over him, knees to either side of his hips, then leaned down and settled her lips on his. Liam’s reaction was immediate and breath-stealing. He rolled her beneath him, shielding her with his arms so that his weight stayed off her. Then he kissed her hard, as though it were a brand of possession.
Possession. Lord, how she’d always hated that word. She had chafed under the proprietary behavior of other lovers. Not with Liam, though. He might claim to own, but she in equal measure owned him. As she returned his kiss, she reached for him, hoping to urge his body into closer contact, but he would have none of it. He took her hands, locked her fingers between his, and pinned them to either side of her head.
“But is it all about this, Vi?” he asked. “Do you see us as the sum total of our body parts?”
These were the emotions she was ill-prepared to face, and if she could dance by them, dance she would. She let her gaze move leisurely down his body. “It’s not such a horrible fate, Rafferty. Yours are some very fine parts.”
He briefly squeezed her hands tighter. “Not this time,” he said. “You won’t be distracting me. I’m about to give you words that I threw about with far too little respect fifteen years ago.
“I love you, Violet Kilbride. Did always and will always. You can make light of this if you wish, but I came here because I love you, and when I’m moving inside you, it’s more than fine body parts at work. I love you, and I’m awed to have the chance to say it again.”
Vi hadn’t realized that she’d begun to cry until the first tear rolled out of the corner of her eye and then was quickly joined by more.
Did she love this man? Aye, but to say the words and then lose him again would be more than she could bear. She tugged at her hands, trying to free herself, but he wouldn’t let go, and instead kissed her again, then spoke.
“You’re the other half of me…the one who has the bluntness to speak the truths I’ve been conditioned to only think. You’re the one who never once laughed at my adventures, not even one as totally mad as looking for that gold. And you’re also the one I’ve never forgotten. Not in one empty night of my life.”
“I’ve never forgotten you, either,” she said, her voice thick with what tears she’d managed to withhold. “I know we’re more than this, I promise I do. But I’m not ready to give words, Liam. I’m just…not,” she finished, for words of love weren’t the only ones difficult to summon.
“I’ve misjudged matters, then?” he asked.
She fumbled for something to say. “I truly appreciate your—”
“Appreciate?” He laughed, but it was a sound made more of frustration than humor. And she knew it was well deserved, too, for next she’d be spouting greeting card verse.
“Christ, after I praise your blunt ways, you mean to kill me with politeness?” he asked. “Tell me this…. Right now, should I leave this bed…leave you…and let you tend to the life you’ve got here?”
