The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  When they reached Ballymena, they found a cozy little eatery in the bottom floor of a three-story Victorian.

  “This place is a bed and breakfast too,” Rylie observed as they got out of the car. “Why don’t we get a room and stay the night?” Then at his startled look, she added, “They must have better beds than that thing you sleep in. I’ll bet your mattress is the worst in three counties.”

  “You’re most likely right,” he conceded. “But things are very old-fashioned here. Unmarried couples, especially those with no luggage, don’t blithely check into B&Bs.”

  “You’re so cute when you’re all prim and proper,” she giggled. Then standing on tiptoe, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “Okay, I’ll put up with your horrible bed tonight, just don’t try to tell me you’re not that kind of boy.”

  Her closeness momentarily robbed Donovan of reason and he pulled her against him for a fast, urgent kiss. The truth was, he’d always been exactly the opposite of “that kind of boy”. Every relationship he’d ever had he made short, superficial, and completely commitment-free. That’s the way he’d always wanted them, until now. Shaken, he pulled away, but Rylie pressed herself against him for another long moment.

  “That’s my kind of appetizer,” she said in a husky whisper. “Let’s hurry up with dinner so we can get to your place for dessert.”

  Though he finished every morsel on his plate, Donovan scarcely tasted any of it. Before the meal arrived, Rylie had gone to the WC and emerged with her hair freshly combed and loose around her shoulders. The light from the single candle on the table made it gleam like burnished gold, while her smoky-eyed gaze sent all the blood to his groin. She kept teasing him with double entendres that made him squirm with growing sexual frustration. But he answered her sass with a bit of his own all the same. At this rate, he thought, they might not make it back to Ballyneagh.

  Near the end of the meal, their verbal antics were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile, but he ignored it, knowing it was likely to be unpleasant news. However, once they finished and he’d paid the bill, she reminded him to check his messages.

  “Oh, hullo Donovan. ’Tis Brenna McRory,” said the anxious-sounding voice. “I’m sorry to be calling again, but I’ve still had no word from Aongus and I was hoping . . . ” The message trailed away for a moment and when she spoke again, there was a catch like a sob. “I suppose I should call the police. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Stopping next to the car, Donovan hit the redial without thinking.

  “What’s wrong?” Rylie asked.

  But Brenna answered before he could tell her anything.

  “Brenna, ’tis Donovan O’Shea. Any word from Aongus?”

  “Donovan, I’m so sorry I disturbed you again.” Her tone sounded strained. “I called everyone I could think of and no one’s seen or heard from him. I even drove out to the dig site, your family’s old homestead, isn’t it? All I saw were some muddy prints inside the cottage, but I don’t think they were Aongus’s. They looked to be American trainers.”

  “Yes, those would be mine,” Donovan reluctantly admitted. “I was out there a couple of nights ago.” He hesitated a moment then asked, “Have you talked to Sybil Gallagher?”

  “I tried, but she’s not returned my calls either.” Her voice cracked and he heard an unmistakable sob. “This is just not like Aongus. I’m so afraid something’s happened to him.”

  “Don’t worry,” Donovan soothed, though the image of McRory with his assistant leapt to the forefront of his mind, making him clench his hand around the phone. “I’m sure he’ll show up any moment.”

  “I pray you’re right, but I was so distraught that before I left the cottage, I called the PSNI.”

  His stomach did a sudden pitch and roll, as Inspector Lynch’s squint-eyed glare materialized in his mind. “What did they say?”

  Brenna gave a ragged sigh, “Same as you. They took a report but told me he’d probably turn up in a day or two.”

  “There ya go then.” He forced a cheerful tone he definitely didn’t feel. “If I should hear anything, I’ll call you straight away.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “You’re too kind.” Then she rang off.

  “What’s going on?” Rylie asked as he shoved his mobile back into his pocket.

  When Donovan looked at her, the flash of McRory as the rampaging Norse warrior flitted through his head. Why was he suddenly full of ugly imaginings?

  “Professor McRory’s not been home in a couple of days.” He didn’t bother disguising his sour tone.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he held the passenger door for Rylie, then walked around and got into the driver's seat before he spoke again. “Poor Brenna’s so worried she called the police.” He buckled his seat belt and reached for the ignition. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her he probably ran off with Sybil Gallagher.”

  “He hasn’t run off with Sybil,” Rylie said, her voice oddly tight and defensive. “I know, because yesterday morning, I put her on the ferry to Scotland.”

  Startled, Donovan cast a quick look in her direction, but her features were indiscernible in the darkness. Clearly there was something going on, but she didn’t elaborate.

  Finally, when she remained unmoving and speechless, he gently probed, “Why Scotland? And why you? Talk to me, Rylie. Please.”

  She sighed wearily, “I guess I was the available neutral third party. Sybil needed to be alone, away from McRory, to think.” She gave another long sigh, then added in a hoarse whisper, “She’s pregnant.”

  Donovan groaned aloud. “I’m guessing the professor wasn’t happy to hear that news.”

  Rylie gave a derisive snort, “Let’s just say he made his preferences very clear.” She shifted in her seat. “Now Sybil has some hard choices. And she wanted to be alone, so I helped her.” Her voice dropped back to a whisper. “I’m just glad it’s not my decision.”

  “A bad situation, to be sure,” he muttered, starting the car.

  The drive was long and quiet with both of them absorbed in their own thoughts. In truth, speculating on the whereabouts of McRory gave Donovan a welcome reprieve from the other disturbing revelations crowding his mind. Thoughts he’d managed to hold at bay all afternoon.

  When the sparse lights from Ballyneagh twinkled ahead in the darkness, Rylie broke the silence. “With everything that’s happened, do you still want me to stay tonight? I’ll understand if you don’t.”

  Donovan nearly swerved the car off the road in his surprise.

  “You must be joking!” he blurted, steering the vehicle back into the proper lane. “Unless, of course, you don’t—”

  “Get real!” Rylie interrupted. “I’ve hardly thought of anything else all day.”

  “Well, in that case . . . ” Donovan hit the brakes, pulled the car over and threw it into park. Then he leaned across and planted a big kiss on the side of her face.

  “Hey!” Laughing, she pushed him away. “What happened to Mr. Traditional who prefers a bed?”

  “After last night, I’ve become far less traditional.” Then Donovan captured her mouth with his for a kiss that started playful but quickly changed to sensual.

  A long moment later, Rylie broke away, panting. “The protection is still sitting in your living room.”

  Groaning, he put the car in gear and proceeded to set a new land speed record for the remaining distance to Ballyneagh. Gravel spewing beneath the tires, he flung the car into the first available space behind the pub, which sported the usual Saturday night crowd.

  The two of them piled out of the car and raced for the back door, their own laughter mingling with the loud noises coming from the main room. With this din,keeping their activities quiet would not be an issue. Donovan’s smile widened with the realization. Hand in hand, they bounded up the steps.

  While he fumbled to open the door, Rylie pulled his head down so that she could sprinkle a line of wet kisses from his chin to his jaw. When she reached his ear,
she gave the lobe a teasing nip that sent his libido into overdrive, and his keys jangling to the floor.

  “Wanton little minx!” he gasped with laughter as they both dove to retrieve the keys.

  She snatched them off the floor first and made a tsking sound. “How clumsy of you.”

  “Clumsy is it?” he demanded, pressing her against the wall, their mouths scant millimeters apart. “You’re the one who bit me.”

  With one hand, he pried the keys from her clenched fist, while with the other, he traced his finger around the edge of her ear.

  “I’m going to do a lot more than that to you, if you ever get the door open,” she vowed. “Starting with this.”

  She claimed his lips, her hot, provocative tongue darting into his mouth. Her firm round breasts poked against his chest and her fingers tunneled into his hair, her nails raking erotically against his scalp.

  The need for the sweet oblivion she offered overwhelmed Donovan for a moment. With a guttural moan, he kissed her back, plastering his body against hers, his arousal thick and hard against her stomach.

  Breaking the kiss, she whispered, “The door, hurry!”

  “You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, struggling to fit the key into the lock.

  “You’ll die smiling,” she promised, nuzzling at his neck again. “My Ulster warrior.”

  But before Donovan could turn the key in the lock, the door swung open. His sister Doreen stood on the other side of the threshold, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her expression could curdle fresh cream.

  “About time you got home.”

  Chapter 11

  THE DARK-HAIRED WOMAN’S GLACIAL TONE FLASH-FROZE Rylie’s blood.

  Holy freaking hell!

  She stumbled against Donovan, who stood as if he’d been frozen also.

  His mouth hung slack for another agonizing moment before he finally croaked, “Doreen, what are you doing here?”

  “I needed to talk to you,” the ice queen replied, skating her frosty glare over the two of them.

  Talk about bad first impressions! Cringing like a lower life form, Rylie dropped her hands to her sides and took a step backward, hoping against hope she would fade into the wall.

  “You could have phoned,” Donovan’s voice sounded equally chilly.

  “I would have, if I’d known you were . . . entertaining.” Her pointed emphasis acted like instant antifreeze and sent all Rylie’s blood rushing to her face.

  Donovan cast a quick glance in her direction then returned his sister’s arctic stare. “Miss Rylie Powell, this is my sister Mrs. Doreen Sullivan.”

  “H-hi,” Rylie managed.

  The other woman said nothing, just continued to stand in her regal splendor. Donovan grabbed Rylie’s hand and towed her past Doreen into the apartment.

  The first thing she saw was the box of condoms, sitting in the center of the coffee table on top of the plastic bag. Great. She might as well have worn a flashing neon sign that said I’m the slut who’s here to screw your brother’s brains out. Guiltily, she pulled her hand from Donovan’s grasp.

  “Have you put on the kettle then?” Donovan asked, his voice still stiff with formality.

  “You’ve run out of tea.” Doreen’s answer sounded accusatory, as if she knew why her brother had no groceries.

  “Then I’ll go downstairs and get us some,” he countered.

  “No, I will!” Rylie jumped at the loudness of her own voice, but no way was she staying up here alone with Donovan’s sister for even a minute. “Please, I insist.”

  Doreen inclined her dark head as if she were a queen bestowing a favor on a lowly subject. Rylie averted her eyes and shifted her feet. But when she glanced up, Donovan’s gaze met hers, bleak with apology and longing.

  “Hurry back,” he said.

  Right, like that was going to happen. She spun on her heel and marched out. However, as soon as she heard the door click behind her, she sprinted down the steps. Breathing hard, she headed straight for the bathroom under the stairs and splashed some water on her face. Then she gave herself a pep talk.

  She refused to let Donovan’s sister intimidate her any further. Meekly turning tail and running was not her style. Not that she could anyway, since Donovan still had her car keys. Squaring her shoulders with new resolve,Rylie assumed her walking-tall stance, strode out and headed for the main room of the pub.

  “So that’s your trouble-making little Yank,” Doreen sneered. She crossed the room and perched on the straight-backed wooden chair. “Seems to be one thing after another since she showed up here.”

  “None of this is her fault,” Donovan declared defensively. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, he swept the offending box of condoms back into the bag, and dropped it on the floor next to his feet.

  “Isn’t it then?” Her censorious gaze followed the bag’s movements. “When I stopped in to see Da this afternoon, he was too upset to be understood, raving on about tests and such. Her paternity tests, I’m guessing. The nursing staff was afraid they’d have to send him to hospital. Then I get here to find that police inspector nosing about asking questions about you and that Professor McRory.”

  She raised her eyes to his, and he was shocked at the anguish he saw in them. “God in heaven, Donovan, please don’t tell me you’re sleeping with that girl when she might be your half-sister!”

  “You bloody well know she’s not!” Outrage brought him to his feet before he realized what he was about. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he flung the words at her and turned his back to regain control.

  He paced to the end of the couch before he spoke again, his tone restrained. “Da admitted who her real father is.” He faced his sister with a fierce scowl. “Those tests he was raving about were of him and me. Seems he’s not my father either.”

  Doreen’s critical attitude dissolved before his eyes. With a strangled sound of distress, she covered her face with her hands. “Damn that Lizzy Cassidy to hell!” she muttered between her fingers.

  “What?” Donovan queried in utter confusion.

  After a long moment, Doreen lowered her hands, but her voice was still shaky. “Remember when I was fourteen and wanted to become a nun? Well, Lizzy Cassidy told me I couldn’t because my mother was a whore.” Her voice took on a low, steely undertone. “When I told her to take it back, she said, ‘everybody knows your brother was born only six months after your father came home from Liverpool.’”

  “Bloody hell!” Donovan swore. “Does everyone in County Armagh know except me?” Feeling unsteady, he sat back down on the sofa.

  His sister wiped her nose with a tissue and gave a defiant little toss of her head. “Not from Lizzy Cassidy. I pushed her down into a muddy ditch and told her if she said another word about my mother or my brother again, I’d bash her over the head and drag her into the fens where nobody would ever find her.”

  A greasy ball of apprehension formed in the pit of Donovan’s stomach, while he stared silently at Doreen for a long moment. “Like our mother did to Malachy Flynn?”

  “Stop it!” she hissed. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

  “Not any more,” he insisted, leaning across the coffee table. “Tell me, Doreen. Tell me what happened that day Mum went missing.”

  Doreen bit her lip and clasped her hands tightly in her lap before she finally spoke in a halting voice. “We were packing up our things to move here. Da had left early to go to Belfast. I heard Mum on the phone. She sounded strange, so I went down to see what was the matter.” Doreen stopped and squeezed her eyes shut as if she could see the scene playing out once more. “She was pale as death but her eyes were crazy wild. She told me to go and fetch you. The two of us had to go to Ballyneagh. And we were not to go on the road. We must cut across Mr. Farrell’s pasture.”

  “I remember,” Donovan murmured, rubbing his temples to soothe the dull ache that throbbed there. “You made me get into the sheep crib. It was full of moldy old straw and I didn’t want to.”
He touched his sister’s tightly clenched hands and she opened her eyes. “You went back, didn’t you? What did you see?”

  Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Not a lot. I stayed on the other side of the wall and peeked through the rocks. There was a black car parked in the yard . . . ” She swallowed convulsively. “I could hear a man shouting, and Mum screaming. I was scared. But then everything went deadly quiet, and I was even more scared.”

  “Did you go to the cottage?” Donovan asked when she stopped speaking.

  Doreen shook her head. “I started to, but then Mum came out. She was dragging something. I couldn’t see very well, but it was something heavy. And she was crying.” A single tear slid down Doreen’s face too. She dashed it away with the back of her hand. “She dragged it into the fens. I—I waited a long time, but she didn’t come back. I was afraid to leave you alone any longer, so I ran back to the crib.”

  The dull pain inside Donovan’s skull had intensified to a pounding. “We waited in the barber shop for Da, didn’t we?”

  Nodding briefly, Doreen’s gaze shot to the door. The pounding wasn’t inside his skull after all. Donovan covered the short distance quickly and threw open the door. Rylie stood outside balancing a large tray with a teapot, cream, sugar, and a plate of scones. She craned her neck to see around him.

  “Let me help you,” he offered.

  But she shook her head and stepped inside. “I’m okay. I’ll just take this into the kitchen.”

  Silently, Rylie walked past Doreen, who was now completely composed and sat ramrod straight in her chair.

  As Rylie disappeared from sight, Donovan shut the door and turned to his sister. “We need to go to the PSNI and tell them the truth.”

  Doreen cast a doubtful glance toward the kitchen. “What truth is that, Donovan?” She got up and walked toward him, her voice low. “Mum may have killed that man, but for all we know it was self-defense. All those years ago, when I told Da what I saw and asked shouldn’t we go to the RUC, he told me we couldn’t trust them. He said there were those who would do all of us harm, even the police.”