He waited while she walked toward him.
“Hello, Jilly,” he said softly.
She saw it there, in his eyes, and her heart burst. “Hello, Frankie.”
“When did you know?”
“From the moment I saw you again in Colette’s room at the hospital. When did you know?”
“I’ve always known,” he said simply. “I’ve kept up with you over the years.”
Jillian laughed shakily. “All this time, I thought— Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid you would send me away.”
Her mouth trembled, and she looked away. Had there ever been a case of such mixed messages? “When did you change your mind?”
He ached to touch her, to smooth her hair and taste her mouth and feel the delicious length of her against him again. “About what?”
“I asked you to give me a child,” she reminded him.
“Oh, that.” He reached down and scooped a pup into his arms, scratched its neck, and set it down again. She’d known who he was all the time, and still she’d asked him. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
Jillian’s eyes widened. “You did nothing to stop it.”
He grinned, and her heart melted. “I had good intentions, but I couldn’t help myself.” His smile faded. “I never expected you t’ be untouched. Would you mind explainin’ that one?”
She shrugged. “Avery didn’t care for women.”
He nodded. “I suspected that. But you were twenty-five when he married you. Why wasn’t there anyone before him?”
Jillian lifted her chin. “That’s none of your business, Frankie Maguire. Maybe no one wanted me.”
Startled, he stared at her, a woman not afraid to show vulnerability and desire, who covered the ground like a dancer in slow motion, whose eyes and legs and mouth were carved indelibly on a man’s brain until he was caught in her rhythms without understanding why. “You’re insane,” he said deliberately.
“Thank you.”
His lips twitched. He threw back his head and laughed. It was good, so good, to hear his name again. That it should come from her was even better. Jillian Graham was still Jilly Fitzgerald, the smart-mouthed little miss who had once been her mother’s cross to bear.
“What is so funny?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sorry?” she demanded, her hand a knuckled fist planted at her waist.
Frankie was no longer laughing. “No, lass. I’m not sorry.”
“What if there’s a child?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek “Is the timing right?”
“Yes.”
“Why me?”
Her eyes fixed on the top button of his shirt, where the pale blue fabric opened against the brown of his neck. She swallowed. “What do you mean?”
He crossed the distance between them and reached for her hand, feeling the delicate bones, a lady’s hand. It had been only a matter of hours, and yet it seemed a lifetime since he’d touched her. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not just a body to father a child you’re askin’ for.”
“Yes,” she said, “it is.”
“How did you intend to go about it, Jilly?” he began conversationally. “Did you mean to take your clothes off and slide between the sheets with me the way we did, skin to skin, or did you mean to go about it clinically and expose just the body parts we’d be usin’?”
Her cheeks burned. “I hadn’t thought that far.”
“Sure you have, lass. You’ve enough imagination for that. If it’s the way I think you mean, first there’s a certain amount of familiarity and settlin’ in. A man needs a bit of an invitation.” He rubbed his thumb across her lips. “You have a beautiful mouth, Jilly, the kind of mouth that stops a man’s eyes from leavin’ your face. A mouth like yours is why we first painted on cave walls.”
He touched that mouth with his lips, and somehow she was in his arms. His voice lowered, and his hands moved to the swells of her breasts. “These are pure fantasy,” he murmured, lifting her gown to her waist, “and so is this.” He touched her briefly between her legs.
She was hypnotized by his voice and the feel of his hands on her skin. He lowered her to the ground. The grass was cool on her back, and she felt him, urgent and hard, against her. Somehow she knew to stroke the length of him behind the soft corduroy, to slip the button out of its hole, to draw the zipper down, to push the fabric below his hips, to take him in her hand and squeeze gently.
He muttered an expletive in Irish, and she froze, terrified that she’d done something wrong. His breath stirred the hair on her temple. “Touch me, love. Don’t stop. Sweet Jesus, Jilly. You’re turnin’ me inside out. Don’t stop now.”
“I want you, Frankie,” she said, wrapping her hand around him, guiding him into her. “I want you inside me. I think I’ve waited my whole life for this.”
Frankie closed his eyes, opened his mouth against hers, and drove into her over and over until everything he knew beyond this moment and this woman no longer mattered.
***
The sun warmed his back. Frankie stirred and looked down at Jillian wrapped securely in his arms. She looked back at him, a question in her eyes. He kissed her brow and the freckles on her nose. “You see, love,” he said, “it’s not just the passing of seed. You want something more intimate than that, and you want it with me. If you didn’t, you’d go to some clinic and pick a test tube filled by an anonymous donor.”
“What if there’s a child? What then?”
“God help us both when we’re found out. But I’m not going away. If there’s a child, I want you t’ marry me.”
“And if there isn’t?”
His mouth tightened.
“Never mind,” she said before he could answer. She pushed at his chest and he shifted to accommodate her.
“It isn’t what you think,” he said.
“What do I think?”
“That we were born to different situations, and I’m too proud to find a way around the differences between us.”
“What is it, then?”
He hesitated, rolled over, and rested his head on the bend of his elbow.
She waited.
“Colette,” he said at last, telling her only half the truth. “It’s disrespectful to her memory.”
“Colette is dead.”
Frankie shook his head. “Not to me. Not yet.”
Sitting up, Jillian fought against the hurting his words brought and pulled the nightgown down over her hips. He’d been hers first, long before Colette. “I want to know what happened to you. Why are you living under a different name?”
He sighed and hitched up his trousers. “It’s a complicated story.”
“We have a week, and I have a right to know.”
He reached up and brushed her jaw with his thumb. “You, more than anyone, have a right to know. I’ll not argue with that.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly undid her. “Will you tell me?”
“Aye, lass. I’ll tell you.”
Twenty-Six
“This changes things, you know,” she said after he’d relayed the major events of the last twenty years of his life, beginning with his sentence to Long Kesh and ending with his appointment as chief negotiator for Sinn Fein.
Frankie’s eyebrows rose. “How so?”
She looked at him, a graceful turning of her lovely neck. “You can’t be part of a negotiated agreement. This isn’t 1921, Frankie. All signatures will be verified. You aren’t who you say you are. Any document that you sign won’t be legally binding.”
“It isn’t impossible to assume a new identity. By necessity, many of us have become adept at it.”
“They’ll want school records, a certificate of baptism. If they find you,
and they will, you’ll go back to prison.”
“You’ll have to trust me with this one, Jillian.”
She folded her hands and squeezed them tightly together. “I wish you would reconsider.”
“I know.”
Jillian bit her lip and looked away. They were in the garden, the wild, overgrown part where roses, huge and heavy with perfume, were never pruned but allowed to grow riotously, gloriously, with no particular plan or direction. Herbs climbed the trellises and through the weeds, wildflowers bloomed in rich, colorful profusion, and in the middle of the brilliant foliage, like minks in a den, the puppies slept, curled around one another in a patch of sunlight. “Did Kathleen ever try to reach you?”
“Aye.” Frankie looked down at his hands. They were curled into fists. “She’s dead now. The news didn’t surprise me, not after the life she chose. She’d given up the baby, a girl. I found her for all the good it did me.” The bitterness harshened his voice. “She was adopted. That’s all I know.”
Jillian could barely form the words. She should tell him, now, before it went any further. “Perhaps she’s with a good family,” she began.
“She is my flesh and blood,” Frankie said tersely, “the only family I have left except for Connor and Tim. She probably thinks no one of her own wanted her.”
Jillian’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps she’s not thinking that at all. Perhaps she’s with people who do want her and who are giving her a better life than you could ever have.”
He knew what he’d done the instant the words left his mouth. “Ah, Jilly. I’ve put my big Irish foot in it again, haven’t I? Forgive me, lass. I’d forgotten that Casey is adopted.”
She nodded, but her smile was wooden.
“After Da died and Kathleen disappeared, I promised myself that I’d find her, t’ see if she’s content.”
Jillian could see the outline of his balled fist inside his trouser pocket. She was beginning to understand. Frankie Maguire took care of his own. He was a nurturer, forced by circumstance into other roles but always true to the one that suited him best. First there had been Kathleen, later Colette and her son, and now Connor. She knew that if she, too, required the cloak of his care, Frankie would provide it. The only one unaccounted for was his niece and hers, Kathleen’s daughter.
Jillian’s hand rose to her throat and rested there. How would he feel when he learned that she had taken it upon herself to do what he could not?
She took a deep breath and released it. Amazingly, he laughed. “It’s a serious turn we’ve taken, isn’t it?” he teased her. “Enough true confessions. Why not let the rest of it go and enjoy the dogs and this rare sunshine?”
Jillian’s heart flipped over. His smile was a weapon that he used to a dreadful advantage. “I have something to tell you, Frankie. I hope you’ll be pleased—”
A sharp whistle interrupted her. The pups leaped to life, running toward the kennel. “It’s Ned. I didn’t realize it was so late. We should see about breakfast.”
“Might I ask what y’ve been doing, that started up such an appetite, Mrs. Graham?” His eyes twinkled, and the Irish was thick as cream on his tongue.
She looked down at her body, very visible beneath the fine lawn of her nightgown, and blushed. “I think I’d better go inside. No,” she said when he started to rise. “Let me go first. In case we see someone.”
“Ashamed of me, Jilly?”
Her eyes met his, flared, and locked. “I was thinking of Connor. You’re the one who said it was too soon.”
His skin darkened beneath his tan. “My apologies, lass,” he said softly. “I was thinkin’ of other things.”
Their glances held briefly. Then she nodded, and he watched her walk away. Frankie looked at the sky, estimated that it would be at least fourteen hours until sundown, cursed softly, and followed her into the house.
A completely recovered Connor met him on the stairs. “Mrs. Hyde says Casey is comin’ home tomorrow night,” he confided to his father. “It’s her birthday.”
Frankie reached for his son, lifted him high into the air, and then brought him close to his chest. “Won’t that be grand for all of us?”
Connor nodded. “Casey likes me. She said so.”
“Of course she does,” agreed Frankie. “Have you eaten, lad?”
“No.” Connor shook his head. “I waited for you. Mrs. Hyde said you were down in the garden with Jilly.”
Frankie winced. So much for discretion. “Perhaps you should call her Mrs. Graham.”
Connor frowned. “I like Jilly. She told me it was her name.”
Frankie sighed. “If it’s already settled between you, I won’t bother with it.” He brushed the bandage on the boy’s temple. “How’s your head? Still a bit sore?”
“A wee bit, when I’m tired, but not now,” he assured his father.
“Shall we wash for breakfast?”
Connor frowned. “Mrs. Hyde already tried t’ wash me, but I told her I could do it myself.”
Frankie stifled a grin. “Perhaps she’s not accustomed to lads like yourself.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled impishly. “She does make wonderful biscuits, much better than Mrs. Flynn’s. If I’m very good, she says I may have two.”
“That’s an incentive if I’ve ever heard one.” Frankie mussed the boy’s shining hair. “Run along now, and let me wash.”
Jillian stepped out of her door just as Frankie was about to walk into his room. His glance moved approvingly over her slim-fitting olive slacks and the creamy sleeveless blouse she wore tucked in. Tawny hair hung loose to her shoulders. “That didn’t take long,” he said softly.
Her mouth curved. “I’m a natural beauty, or haven’t you noticed?”
She was flirting with him, as if they were two ordinary people and anything was possible. He couldn’t resist her. “I’ve noticed,” he said, his hand reaching out to close around her arm and pull her into his room, closing the door behind them. Gathering her close, he lowered his head to her mouth and kissed her, leisurely, the way he’d always wanted to, as if he had nothing more to do than explore the delicious feel of her mouth under his.
Jillian felt the privacy of the room surround her, and she relaxed, allowing her body to fit against him, filling his spaces. Soon she would tell him about Casey. But not now, not like this. Sliding her arms around his neck, she opened under his kiss.
Reluctantly, he lifted his head. “I need ten minutes.”
She stared blankly.
“Breakfast.”
“Of course.” Reaching behind her, she turned the knob. “I’ll entertain Connor.”
The finger tracks in his hair were still wet from the shower when he sat down at the table. Jillian was listening with the appropriate amount of interest to Connor’s rendition of a typical weekend in the streets of West Belfast. “Jimmy and I play with the big boys near the cannery.”
“Is Jimmy your friend?” Jillian asked.
“Aye, Jimmy Donovan.” Connor licked a spot of jelly from the blade of his knife.
“Connor, mind your manners,” his father cautioned him.
“We play at hurling,” the boy continued, “except when Kevin wants the ball.”
“Kevin?”
“Jimmy’s brother. He’s big,” he said as if that explained everything.
Jillian nodded. “What do you do if Kevin wants the ball?”
Connor grinned. “We go into the hills and shoot birds.”
“What?”
Frankie heard the panic in her voice and considered it an auspicious time to step in. “Tell Jilly how many birds you’ve bagged.”
“None yet. We’ve only sling-shots, you see.”
She did see. Quickly, she lifted her napkin to her mouth to hide her smile.
“
Mrs. Flynn thinks I’m wicked t’ do such a thing.”
“Do you think it’s wicked?” Jillian asked him.
Connor tilted his head to consider her question. Then he ran his tongue over his lips and rested it against the corner of his mouth. “Fox hunting is even more wicked.”
“I suppose it is,” she replied thoughtfully, remembering her father’s pleasure in leading the first hunt of every season. Kildare was horse country, and every Fitzgerald could ride to the hounds. “Perhaps shooting at inanimate objects would be better.”
Connor wrestled with the ham on his plate, gave up, and picked up a sausage with his fingers. “What’s that?”
Jillian leaned across the table and cut his ham into bite-size pieces. “Something that isn’t alive and feels no pain.”
“Those don’t move,” he said scornfully.
“Then you’ll be able to hit them, won’t you?”
Connor’s eyebrows rose, an arrested expression on his face.
His father laughed. “She’s caught you up neatly, lad. Think about it.”
“Jilly, may I ride one of the ponies? Ned says I may if I ask you first.”
“Your father is the one to ask, love.”
“May I, Da?”
Frankie nodded. “Only if Ned stays with you and it isn’t too much trouble. I wouldn’t want that head of yours to open up again. After you rest a bit, maybe Jilly will take us fishin’ down at the burn.”
Connor’s eyes widened with the kind of rapture Jillian remembered from her own childhood. “Will you, Jilly?”
Jillian laughed. “Of course, and after that, you can help Ned and your da with the dogs.”
“You’re very lucky,” he said solemnly, the blue eyes very serious.
“Why is that?”
“To live in this grand place with horses and dogs.”
Jillian’s heart swelled. “We’ve chickens, too,” she said when she’d collected her emotions. “If you wake up early enough, I’ll show you how to feed them.”
Connor grinned and ran through the door, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the wooden floors.
Suddenly self-conscious, Jillian concentrated on pouring exactly the right amount of milk into her cup before adding the tea.
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