by JoAnn Ross
And why not? Quinn thought grimly, knowing all too well how painful a man’s big rough hands could be.
He glanced up at Nora and read the regretful answer in her eyes. And in that suspended moment of shared concern for Kate O’Sullivan and her children, Quinn—who’d spent his entire life deftly avoiding involvement—felt as if he’d just taken a fatal misstep into quicksand.
Chapter Six
In Fortune’s Hand
Intending to retrieve his car, Quinn had put on his jacket and was headed for the front door when Brady called to him.
“From the looks of you, you’d be going out somewhere.”
“I thought I’d walk into town.” Quinn entered the book-filled room, which looked out over green rolling pastures and the distant sea beyond. The sun was brighter in this country renowned for rain than Quinn had expected. “I’m going to need my car to get to the shoot at the lake tomorrow.”
“Oh, you can’t be doing that, my boy.” Brady put down the book of Gaelic folktales he was reading on a nearby table. “It’s much too far to be walking. I’d offer to drive you myself, but I’ve a great deal of paperwork to do. The bills don’t pay themselves, don’t you know. And poor Nora, as lovely and sweet as she is, has never had a head for figures.”
He pushed himself from the overstuffed chair and began rummaging around in an old desk, finally locating a green ledger book.
“It’s no problem,” Quinn said. “The walk will do me good.” Especially after the unusually large breakfast he’d shared with Maeve.
“Truly, there’s no need for you to be doing that,” Brady said quickly. “Nora will be more than happy to drive you back into the village to fetch your automobile.”
“I don’t want to disturb her Sunday.”
“You won’t be disturbing her at all,” Brady assured him. “Aren’t you a guest? She wouldn’t be having you walk all that way into Castlelough.”
Quinn decided not to mention that he ran longer distances on a daily basis back home.
“Thanks for the suggestion.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Brady looked up from sharpening a yellow pencil with a penknife and beamed his approval. “Enjoy your Sunday drive, now.”
Quinn was on his way to the kitchen when he passed the parlor and saw Fionna sitting in front of the lace-covered window, knitting needles clacking.
“I expect you’ll be wanting a ride into the village to fetch your automobile?” she called out to him.
He paused in the doorway. “Actually I was planning to walk. Brady suggested Nora, but—”
“And isn’t that clever of my son to think of her?” Fionna’s smile, which echoed Brady’s, set internal alarms blaring. “Our Nora’s an excellent driver. And you couldn’t have a better tourist guide.”
“Surely your granddaughter has better things to do than chauffeur me around.”
“Now don’t you be worrying your head about that.” The knitting needles continued to clack with the speed of dueling rapiers in an old Errol Flynn movie. “The family can take up her chores for this one day.” With a brisk nod of her bright red-gold head, Fionna declared the subject closed.
It crossed Quinn’s mind that Nora’s father and grandmother seemed awful damn eager to get the two of them alone together. He wondered idly if they could actually be setting a trap for him, the rich Yank.
It wasn’t as if such schemes hadn’t succeeded before: get an American to marry you so you can get a green card to live legally in the States, then bring over your entire family on the next boat. Or plane, these days, he supposed.
The idea almost made him laugh. Fionna and Brady Joyce could set all the snares they chose. But in this case their prey was far too wary to be captured.
He’d planned to sneak out the kitchen door without being noticed, but found Nora where he’d left her earlier. The O’Sullivans had apparently departed and she’d changed from the dress she’d worn to church into a pair of jeans, a creamy sweater and a white apron.
She was kneading bread. The warm smell of the yeast coupled with the sight of her slender arms elbow deep in the mound of dough made Quinn’s gut twist with something indefinable.
“May I help you?” She glanced up at him with a smile, but her eyes were guarded. As well they should be, Quinn thought grimly. The widow Fitzpatrick was obviously intelligent enough to realize he was way out of her league. “Would you be liking a cup of tea? Or, perhaps, some coffee?”
“Nothing, thanks. I need to go into town to get my car. Brady suggested you’d be able to drive me, but I assured him I can walk.”
“Of course I’ll be taking you.” Again, her smile was pleasant, but self-protective barriers remained firmly in place in her eyes. “If you don’t mind waiting until I get this bread in the pan.”
“I don’t mind at all.” He turned a chair around, straddled it and leaned his arms on the top of the seat back. “I’ve never seen bread being made.”
She laughed at that. “What a deprived life you’ve led, then, Mr. Gallagher.”
“I’m beginning to think you might be right, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” The movement of her hands pushing at the elastic white dough was both homey and sensual at the same time. “I really hate to intrude on your day.”
“You’re no intrusion at all. I enjoy driving. And it’s a lovely day, after all.”
“Your father said he’d take me if he wasn’t so busy with his ledger book,” Quinn said conversationally.
“Ledger book?” Nora’s hands stilled for a moment, and she glanced at him in surprise. “The farm account book?”
“That’s what it looked like.”
“Well.” She shook her head and began pounding harder at the dough.
“Something wrong?”
“Wrong?” She was refusing to look at him, her voice had taken on a sharp edge, and she’d begun attacking the dough as if she bore it a personal grudge. “What could be wrong with a man tending to business?”
What indeed? Quinn wondered. But something definitely had her ire up. Electricity was practically radiating from every pore.
“Well, that’s done for now.” She turned the dough into two oblong pans, covered them with a cotton dish towel, then brushed her palms together to dust off the flour. “It’ll just take me a few minutes to wash up and—”
“I’ll do that,” a voice offered from the doorway. Both Quinn and Nora turned to see Mary.
“You’re volunteering to do dishes?” Nora’s eyes narrowed. “Saints preserve us,” she said with an exaggerated brogue that reminded Quinn of her father’s. “Ring up Father O’Malley right away, because it’s sure we’re witnessing a miracle.”
“I’ve done dishes before. Lots of times,” Mary countered with a toss of her dark head. “Gran sent me in to finish washing up so you and Mr. Gallagher could leave for the village.”
“And isn’t that thoughtful of your grandmother,” Nora said dryly. She washed the remaining bits of dough off her hands beneath the tap, dried them on her apron, then took it off and hung it on a wooden hook on the wall. “If you’re ready, then, Mr. Gallagher.” After plucking a set of keys from another hook, she walked out the kitchen door, leaving Quinn to follow.
“What the hell is that?” He stared at the huge garishly painted old Caddy sitting in the driveway where earlier red-feathered chickens had scratched.
Nora arched a brow. “Are you telling me you’ve never seen a miracle-mobile, Mr. Gallagher?”
“This is a first. Is it yours?” He assured himself that he’d survived far worse in his lifetime than being seen by any of the crew in what looked like an amateur artist’s rendition of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
“Don’t worry, it’s Fionna’s. Mine is the blue one parked behind it. We fetched it from the pub after mass this morning.”
Thank God. “Nice car,” he murmured.
Nora laughed in a way that told him she knew exactly how relieved he was feeling. “Thank you. It’s a wee bit boring compared to Fionn
a’s. But I like it.”
The car, like most he’d seen in Ireland, was a compact sedan that could probably fit into the rear of the Chevy Suburban parked next to the Porsche in his three-car garage back in Monterey.
“I really am sorry to inconvenience you this way,” he said into the well of strained silence surrounding them as they drove through the rolling green hills. It was obvious that her brief humor over his reaction to her grandmother’s colorful Cadillac had faded, leaving her still upset about something.
“It’s no inconvenience,” Nora snapped. Then, as if realizing how brisk she’d sounded, she sighed and rubbed at her temple, as if trying to ward off a headache. “I’m sorry. Truly I don’t mind driving you into the village, Mr. Gallagher. It’s just that I’m a little put out at my family at the moment.”
“For throwing us together.”
She shot him a surprised look. “You knew that’s what they were doing?”
He watched the color—like wild primroses—rise in her cheeks, tried to remember the last time he’d been with a woman capable of blushing and came up blank. Even as he reminded himself that innocence held no appeal, Quinn found the rosy hue enticing.
“It was pretty obvious.”
“I’m sorry.” She combed a not very steady hand through her riot of curls. In the midday light her hair glowed like a burning bush. Her wrists were narrow, her fingers slender, her short nails unlacquered, once again bringing to mind a nun. A sensible man would give her a wide berth. Quinn reminded himself he’d always considered himself a sensible man.
“It’s not right that you should have to deal with their foolish matchmaking schemes while you’re a paying guest.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“But you shouldn’t have to, you see.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about it?” he suggested mildly.
“It’s just so…embarrassing. And annoying. As if I’m some over-the-hill spinster who can’t get a man on my own.”
Since she’d practically handed him a gilt-edged invitation, Quinn allowed himself the luxury of an in-depth perusal of the woman sitting so close to him. His eyes, safely hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, looked her over with slow deliberation, from the top of her fiery head to her sneaker-clad feet, where he found a surprisingly whimsical touch—white cotton socks trimmed with lace. And although he knew his mind had no business going off in such a dangerous direction, he wondered if she was wearing more white lace beneath those jeans and that sweater.
“The gold wedding band on your finger proves you’re no spinster. And I’ve no doubt there are more than a few men in Ireland who’d want you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”
The color in her cheeks deepened. “I’ll be taking that as a compliment, Mr. Gallagher.” Although her voice remained steady, her eyes had gotten that guarded look again. “Especially since you’ve already assured me I’m not your type of woman.”
He’d been wondering if she was going to bring that up. “I suppose this is where I apologize for my boorish behavior. Although being drunk’s no excuse, I can’t remember the last time I got so wasted. Believe me, I usually display a helluva lot more finesse when I’m seducing a woman.”
“And are you in the habit of seducing women who aren’t your type?”
Quinn gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Hardly. In fact, last night was a first.”
“It was probably the drink,” she offered helpfully.
“Probably,” he agreed, not believing it for a minute. “I suppose that’s what I get for trying to keep up with all the toasts.”
Quinn had quickly discovered that when anyone in the pub offered to stand for a drink, it was bad manners to refuse. Then, of course, you had to return the compliment. Next it would be someone else’s turn. And on and on until he was amazed anyone was left standing at the end of the evening.
“My father doesn’t usually drink so much,” Nora volunteered, as if needing to defend Brady’s behavior. “It’s his habit to drink a pint or two and get his enjoyment from telling his tales.”
“Alcohol’s a slippery slope. Sometimes people can lose their footing.”
“True enough.” She slanted him another curious glance. “You sound as if you have some personal experience with such things.”
“My mother was a drunk.” Quinn had never told another living soul about his mother. He wondered why the hell he’d just told Nora Fitzpatrick.
“Oh.”
She fell silent. And seemingly thoughtful as she drove down the ribbon of road past hedgerows thick with lacelike flowers. The fruit trees blooming in yards along the roadway looked like pink and white bouquets against the blue sky. The windows of the car were open, allowing in air so fresh Quinn felt almost as if he could drink it.
They passed a donkey-pulled cart carrying ten-gallon milk cans, headed, Quinn supposed, to the creamery in Castlelough; amazingly a small dog stood on the donkey’s back. The driver of the cart, an elderly man wearing a tweed suit, billed cap and green Wellies, seemed delighted to see them and waved his hand enthusiastically. Nora lifted a hand to wave back.
“And your father?” she asked Quinn at length. “Did he have a liking for spirits, as well?”
“My father could have been the poster boy for AA. If he’d ever seen fit to attend a meeting, that is. Or go a day without a drink.”
She glanced over at him again, her exquisite face grave. “I’m sorry.”
“So was I.” Quinn hated the sympathy—and worse yet, pity—that seemed to soften her tone.
“And now?”
Out of longtime habit, he shut his mind to thoughts of his father, whose brutal blood tainted his own veins.
“And now I don’t think about it.” He gave her a hard level look. His curt tone, thick with a tension he didn’t bother to conceal, declared the subject closed.
She should just drive Quinn Gallagher into Castlelough, drop him off at The Irish Rose to retrieve his car and return home to finish her chores, Nora thought, biting her lip at his curtness. After all, the bread would need punching down soon, there was laundry to do—the last time Mary had taken on the chore, she’d tossed in one of Rory’s T-shirts and turned all Brady’s underwear pink—and, of course, dinner to prepare.
It shouldn’t bother her that the man sitting beside her in the suddenly too-close confines of the car seemed to be mired in unpleasant memories of his past. He’d been less than charming since his arrival late last night, and the simple truth was that she’d only rented him a room. She was under no obligation to provide guided tours of the county she loved, concern herself with his brooding or care that he seemed to be filled with dark shadows.
Quinn Gallagher meant nothing to her but a rental fee that would keep the farm afloat for the next few months. Whatever internal demons the American might be fighting meant nothing to her. She didn’t care about him or his moods.
The devil she didn’t.
Nora sighed and thought once again how useless it was to fight nature. Hadn’t she learned that lesson with Conor? Living in the west was living poor, and Conor, born on a neighboring farm where Kate still lived, had been determined to outrun and outride poor.
As for herself, so long as she could keep the bankers at bay, Nora had never minded not having money for the extras Conor had seemed to need. Her husband, who’d set his sights even higher than Dublin, had jokingly called her his little country mouse. Indeed, Nora could more easily imagine traveling on a spaceship to the moon than moving away from the family farm.
Conor had been bold, daring and restless as the wind.
He’d also been a wee bit self-centered. But since that had been part of the cocky confidence that contributed greatly to his charm, she’d never complained. Not even when he hadn’t managed to make it home for Rory’s birth.
He’d been competing in the Olympic trials at the time. And although she’d understood the importance of the event, Nora couldn’t deny that she wished he’d been by her side when she’d br
ought their only son into the world.
At the time, Kate, who was not nearly as unforgiving of her brother’s behavior, had accused Nora of being a natural-born caretaker, always willing to put her own wishes aside in order to concentrate on the whims of others. Nora hadn’t argued then, and truth be told, couldn’t argue the fact now.
She had, indeed, been a caretaker all of her life, and a caretaker she’d undoubtedly die. Normally the personal rewards made the sacrifices worthwhile. She feared that Quinn Gallagher might prove to be the exception to the rule.
“Shall I show you the lake?” she asked into the prolonged silence.
“The lake?” Appearing to pull himself momentarily out of whatever gloomy place he was wallowing in, Quinn looked over at her with surprise.
“Lough Caislean.” She called the lake by its Irish name.
He lifted a brow. “Ah, where the famed monster lurks.”
“The creature,” she corrected quietly, hoping his words didn’t mean the movie people were planning to portray the Lady as some voracious killer from the deep lagoon. Like in those grainy black-and-white Japanese Godzilla films John had been so taken with when he’d been Rory’s age.
“Creature, monster.” He waved a hand dismissively. “What’s the difference?”
Nora thought about that for a moment. “I suppose it’s a matter of semantics. And respect.”
He laughed again, a rough rusty sound that reminded her of the nearly bald tires of Fionna’s miracle-mobile running over a gravel road. It occurred to Nora that Quinn Gallagher was not a man who allowed himself to laugh often.
“Are you saying you believe the Lady exists?” he asked.
She shrugged, feeling foolish. She dearly wished they’d not gotten onto this topic. “I’ve never seen her myself. But I respect others’ beliefs.”
She did not mention that Rory was one of those who insisted he’d not only seen, but talked with the Lady. Since it seemed to give him comfort and she’d had her own imaginary playmate when she was his age, she’d never been overly concerned with her son having the lough beastie for a best friend.
