“What if you didn’t have to be Danny Browne? What if you could be Francis Maguire of Kilvara? What if .you could do all the things we talked about when we were children?” She searched his face, hoping for a sign, a weakening, a flicker of interest, any evidence at all to show that she’d moved him. For long moments, there was nothing.
Finally, he spoke. “This isn’t a fairy tale, Jillian. It’s Ireland, and we haven’t had a happy ending in centuries.”
Ridding herself of the last of her inhibitions, she did the only thing that made sense. Twining her arms around his neck, she pulled his head down and raised her lips to his. “Damn you, Frankie Maguire,” she said against his mouth. “I’ll not let you tell me in the same breath that you want me and that it’s impossible. And I’ll no longer allow you to use Colette as an excuse. She was more a friend to me than most, and I know she wouldn’t want us to put this aside.”
Her perfume and the softness of her lips were driving him mad. He fought against it. “How could you possibly know what a woman like Colette would want?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
He heard her words, soft and laced with laughter. Then he gave himself up to the demand of insistent hands, warm, willing lips, and the hot blood that rose inside him whenever his discipline slipped and his mind called up images of summer air and a stolen night that nothing could make him regret.
When his air had run out and he was half insane with the wanting of her, he lifted his head and breathed deeply, raggedly. “Jilly, lass,” he rasped, “what do y’ want with me?”
“Just be with me,” she whispered.
“Are you—” he hesitated. “Are you all right, Jilly?”
She looked surprised. “Of course.”
He slid his hand around to the back of her neck, threaded his fingers through her hair, and tugged her head down to his shoulder. “Y’ look tired,” he said, his lips moving against the curve of her neck. “Are y’ sure there isn’t something you want t’ tell me?”
All at once, she understood. “No, Frankie. It’s too soon.”
“You will tell me, either way?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t y’ tell me about Casey?”
“I would have, but Connor was there, and we kept getting interrupted. Then it was too late.” She pulled away slightly to look up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew who I was?”
Framing her face with his hands, he ran his thumbs along the bones of her cheeks. “I didn’t trust you.”
Hurt swallowed her. “That’s honest,” she managed.
“Later,” he continued, “when I did, I was afraid you would tell me t’ go away. I needed more time.”
“Why?”
She was relentless, exposing all that he felt, softening the razor-honed edges of his nerves until they were the soft mush of Irish oats. “Surely you don’t need the answer to that one.”
“That’s exactly what I do need.”
Jillian knew that Frankie Maguire wasn’t a violent man. But his hands gripped her shoulders painfully, and he looked angry. For a moment, before he spoke, she was frightened of stirring the rage within him.
“You must know how I feel about you, lass.”
Her eyes were steady and bright on his face. “But I don’t.”
His heart pounded in his throat Why was it so difficult? He felt it. He even wanted to say it. Why, then, did his throat close around the words? The answer came to him. Once he gave voice to them, there would be no going back, and it scared the bloody hell out of him. “Is there a lock on the door?” he asked hoarsely.
Jillian was confused. “I don’t know.” She watched him stride across the room, bolt the door, and come back to her. He took her hand, led her to the couch, and sat down beside her so their knees touched.
Sliding his hands around her waist, he pulled her close. “It doesn’t matter,” he said fiercely, his eyes on her face. “None of what I say matters, because nothing can ever come of it. But I’ll say the words if they please you. Do y’ understand what I’m tellin’ you, Jilly?”
She nodded. Understanding was not the same as accepting.
He drew a deep restorative breath. “Well, then, Jillian Fitzgerald, it’s like this. I wanted more of what we had at Kildare. I think I’ve always wanted it. Even when we were children, I couldn’t stop myself, thinking and hopin’ what we told each other could really be. What I couldn’t believe was that you would feel the same. When you told me y’ wanted a child, part of me was insane with jealousy. I wanted you t’ want me, Frankie Maguire of Kilvara, not Danny Browne, Sinn Fein negotiator.”
It wasn’t what she’d hoped, but Jillian had long since reached the point of taking whatever it was he had to offer. If loving Frankie meant nothing more than stolen nights at Kildare, she would accept it gladly and be grateful. “I’ve never wanted anyone else but you,” she whispered. “Somehow I knew, even when you were Danny Browne and Colette’s husband.”
She felt his lips on her throat. At the same time, his hands made their way up the silky smoothness of her hose-covered legs to the heated flesh above the line where the stocking ended and the softness of her skin began.
Leaning back against the firm pillows of the couch, she closed her eyes and forgot about Ireland, forgot about David Temple and Gary McMichael waiting in the other conference room, forgot that she was to bring an agreement to the table that would change the direction of Irish history, forgot everything but the feel of sure fingers unbuttoning her blouse and pushing it aside, slipping lacy straps from her shoulders, baring her breasts, a prelude to urgent lips sliding down the generous slope, opening over the exposed peak, licking, sucking, arousing, until her back arched and she felt him naked against her, the hard, swollen heat of him demanding entrance.
Her flesh closed around him, and it began, the delicious, mindless thrusting, the muffled words, the exploring hands, the gentle slapping of breast and belly, the explosion of desire that lifted her outside and beyond the ancient, forbidding walls of Stormont Castle and then back again.
“I love you, Frankie,” she said when the drumming of her heart had slowed. “I know this is the worst possible time to tell you, but I do. I don’t care if you don’t love me back. Yes, I do,” she amended, “but whether you do or not doesn’t change anything for me.”
He lifted his head and stared at her in wonder. “Have you heard nothin’ I’ve said, lass?” At last, the words came freely. “I love you desperately. I’ll go to the grave lovin’ you.”
“But you won’t marry me.”
“No. Not unless I have to. Danny Browne should not be marryin’ anyone, not with a lie on my lips and in my heart. But I won’t have you bear a child alone and give it Avery Graham’s name.”
“Has anyone ever told you that your pride is enormous?”
“Aye.” He grinned and suddenly looked much younger.
Jillian’s heart ached. She wanted to change the world for him, to bring that youthful abandon to his expression more often. Perhaps she already had. “We’ve increased the odds, you know,” she said softly.
“I know, and part of me hopes it’s so.” He kissed her forehead, sat up, zipped his trousers, and tucked in his shirt. “This is insanity. I’ve lost all perspective. If someone had tried the door—”
“But they didn’t.” Jillian had buttoned up her blouse. “What happens now?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “Do y’ want the lads t’ know you’ve a Catholic lover, Mrs. Graham?” The Irish lilt at the end of his words was strong and teasing.
Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes glowed with the warmth of a woman thoroughly satisfied. She smiled and took his dare. “I don’t mind.”
“Shall we flaunt it now or wait until you are no longer Northern Ireland’s minister?”
“Perhaps we should wait.”
He laughed. “A wise decision.”
“I don’t care for myself,” she said. “I’ve never cared what anyone thought.”
He knew it was true. But there was more to it. There were people depending on him, people he couldn’t walk away from. Jillian Graham in her fancy town house off Lisburn Road knew nothing of the life he lived, the threats, the late-night searches, the harassment, the interrogations at Castlereagh, the bomb warnings, the shrill sing-song of police sirens, the fumes of tear gas, and the frightening, inevitable explosions that left what had once been a place of business or a gathering for friends a ruin of smoking, decimated rubble.
Jillian was not born into violence. Even if he were free to use his name again, he would not test her feelings by making her his wife, exposing her to danger by bringing her into war-torn West Belfast. A man was as weak as his weakest link. Fear of losing her would make him weak. He pushed aside the voice in his head reminding him that, even now, she could be carrying his child, and then all his arguments, the posturing, the excuses, the warnings, would crumble into dust like the faded, sepia-toned photos of the life he had given up the day he escaped from Long Kesh prison.
***
Thomas Putnam, the nationalists’ hope for Northern Ireland, welcomed the Sinn Fein delegation into his rooms at Downing Street. Earlier, he had seen Gary McMichael, David Temple, and the unionist attorneys. On his desk, he had a signed document bearing their signatures, a document that outlined what Putnam believed would be the final position on the Northern Ireland peace initiative. Both sides had compromised and come to an agreement on every issue except one, perhaps the most sensitive one of all, the disbanding of Ulster’s police force, a move that loyalist factions unilaterally opposed. Putnam was prepared to bargain heavily in order to win nationalist support.
He knew that Robbie Wilson, Sinn Fein’s chief representative, was sensible. He would not walk away without bringing home the hope of peace for his constituents. Gerry Kelly was a firebrand, a retired member of the Irish Republican Army who had served multiple sentences in Long Kesh. In the end, he would be ruled by Wilson. Browne was the only unknown. The man had been a complete mystery until Jillian’s bombshell.
“Sit down, gentlemen.” Putnam ushered them into the mahogany-paneled room. “I believe we may have an agreement.”
A rare smile crossed Wilson’s lips. “Shall we cut to the chase, Mr. Putnam?”
Putnam frowned “I don’t understand.”
Frankie interpreted. “Tell us what they can’t stomach.”
Startled by his bluntness, Putnam stared across his desk into eyes as cold and unrelieved a gray as the bleak stones of Stormont Castle. Any hopes he had for a quick settlement evaporated. “Very well,” he said slowly. “They won’t agree to disbanding the RUC.”
Frankie’s eyes locked with Wilson’s, and both men leaned back in their chairs.
“Without that, Catholics have no hope of receiving justice at the hands of law enforcement,” Wilson said.
“They want a gradual attrition,” explained Putnam, “a sort of affirmative action, if you will.”
“How would it work?” Frankie asked.
“All new police officers will be hired from the Catholic population until the number reflects the percentage of the Catholic population.”
Frankie shook his head. “We won’t see Catholics on the force until the middle of the next century.”
Putnam leaned forward in his chair. “What do you propose, Mr. Browne?”
“Twenty percent of the force to take early retirement immediately. New recruits, from the Catholic population, will replace them.”
Putnam’s forehead wrinkled. “What of the expense?”
“Benefits for retired police officers are significantly lower than salaries. The excess can go toward new recruits’ salaries. It’s a lot more than Catholics are makin’ now. The way I see it, it’s a wash.”
It took the prime minister less than a minute to make his decision. “All right,” he said. “Twenty percent to retire in order to make room for Catholic recruits. After that, a natural attrition with replacements pulled from the Catholic population until the requisite quota is met.”
Wilson looked puzzled. “Just like that? Don’t y’ have to talk with someone?”
Putnam shook his head. “The unionist position specifies no disbanding of the RUC. I haven’t disbanded it.” Reaching for his pen, he made the necessary changes on the document and handed it, with a pen, to Robbie Wilson.
Wilson stood and took the pen, a lean, imposing man with thick, liberally salted dark hair. “Will you call a press conference?”
“I won’t even wait until the ink is dry.”
When the three Sinn Fein leaders had affixed their signatures, Putnam walked them to the door. “Mr. Browne,” he said casually, “may I have a moment?”
Frankie’s right eyebrow lifted. “Of course,” he said slowly. “Go ahead, lads,” he said to his party. “I’ll catch up.”
Robbie Wilson narrowed his eyes behind his metal-rimmed glasses. “We’ll wait for you.”
Frankie walked back to the mahogany-paneled office and settled himself in a leather chair. Putnam offered him a cigar. He declined.
“It appears that you have friends in high places, Mr. Browne, or should I say Mr. Maguire?”
Frankie stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
Putnam seated himself and leaned forward, his hands forming a pyramid on the desktop. “I won’t leave you hanging, Mr. Maguire. You have been issued a full pardon for the murder of Terrence Fitzgerald.”
Frankie’s head spun. Was he being set up? Every instinct told him to deny his name.
Wilson’s next words were nearly as shocking. “Jillian Graham has requested that all charges against you be dropped.” He reached into the top drawer of the desk and laid out the legal document. “You are a free man, Mr. Maguire, if that is what you want. Of course, you may elect to keep your identity. You’ve been Danny Browne for more years than you were Francis Maguire.”
Frankie stared at him in disbelief. Only an Englishman would say such a thing. “Why?” he managed.
Thomas Putnam’s dark eyes glinted. “You’re a very lucky man to have Jillian Graham in your camp. We all are. There wasn’t a chance in a lifetime of reaching an agreement like this without her. I’m most grateful.” He grinned. “Because of her, my approval ratings will soar. I’m only sorry it isn’t time for reelection.”
Frankie scooped up the paper and stood. “I suppose I should thank you.”
“It would stick in your throat. Thank Jillian instead.”
Frankie nodded. “I will.”
“By the way,” Putnam asked, “were you innocent?”
Frankie took his time answering, and for a moment Thomas Putnam thought that Jillian may have been wrong.
“Aye,” he said at last. “Innocent of the killing but not of the hating. I hated Terrence Fitzgerald.”
“Why didn’t you fight the charges?”
Frankie’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Putnam sighed. “I suppose not. Do you think this will change anything?”
Frankie flashed his brilliant smile. “It must, Mr. Putnam. There is no other alternative for us.”
The prime minister sat in his chair for a long time. Frankie Maguire had gone, and with him he’d taken what was left of the warmth and light. The man had nerves of steel and his own lethal brand of Irish charm. Putnam was enough of a politician to know that Maguire would be a formidable opponent if they were ever on opposite sides. Jillian had unleashed a tiger. He only hoped she knew how to keep him pacified.
Thirty
Thomas Putnam’s press conference stunned the world. No one really believed either si
de would compromise. An understandable reserve held the population of Ulster in a wary grip. Four hundred years of discord could not be settled by the mere stroke of a pen, or could it?
Jillian’s telephone at Stormont hadn’t stopped ringing. Finally, at seven o’clock the following evening, she left the building and drove home. Mrs. Wilson brought her a pot of tea and a sandwich, mercifully asked no questions, and left her alone in her sitting room on Lisburn Road.
Frankie and the Sinn Fein delegation would not yet have returned from London. Thomas Putnam had called earlier in the day to tell Jillian that Frankie’s pardon had been issued. There was nothing in the prime minister’s voice to indicate how he had reacted to her interference, and, desperate as she was to know if Frankie was pleased or angry, nothing would make her ask.
When the housekeeper tapped softly on the door, Jillian’s heart began to race. She had told Mrs. Wilson that she was home to only two people.
“Come in,” she called out.
Mrs. Wilson poked her head in. “It’s Mr. Browne. Will you take it?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.” Cradling the receiver against her ear with shaking hands, Jillian cleared her throat. “Frankie?”
“Hello, lass. I called as soon as I could.”
His words flowed over her like warm honey, and her control shattered. She squeezed the receiver until her fingers ached. “Where are you?”
“At home.” There was a brief silence. “Connor misses you.”
She smiled into the phone. “Is it only Connor who misses me?”
“Perhaps I miss you a wee bit as well.”
Jillian laughed. “Can we do something about that?”
“What do you suggest?”
“I could come there.”
“Connor is here.”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t visit Connor?”
His voice was low, husky, intimate. “Not tonight. Not for what I have in mind.”
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