“Then come here.”
“Now, why did I think you’d never ask?”
“What about Connor?”
“I’ll wait until he’s asleep. Mrs. Flynn will look out for him.”
“Hurry,” she whispered.
“Jilly?” Her name on his lips crackled and leaped through the telephone wire.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Smiling, she hung up the phone. Suddenly, she was no longer drained with fatigue. Humming to herself, she started up the stairs to her bedroom. A sound in the hall and Mrs. Wilson’s welcoming voice stopped her. She turned around and walked down the hallway. Casey was leading a very tall, very blond young man into the sitting room.
“Mum,” she said, her eyes lighting when she spied Jillian. “There is someone I’d like you to meet. This is Tim Sheehan.”
Jillian smiled graciously, walked forward, and extended her hand. “Hello, Tim. How are you?”
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Graham,” the boy answered politely, shaking her hand and releasing it as soon as possible. “Casey and I met at Trinity.”
“I see.” She looked at Casey. “Is there a holiday I missed?” Casey shook her head. “No, Mum. I brought Tim home to meet you because I love him and he loves me.”
A great rushing sound filled Jillian’s ears. “I’m not sure that I understand,” she said slowly, “unless congratulations are in order. Is that what you’re trying to tell me, Casey? Are you engaged?”
“No,” Tim and Casey said in unison.
Tim Sheehan linked his hand with Casey’s. “Not that we’ve ruled it out, you understand. It’s just that we haven’t known each other very long.”
Jillian hoped her relief didn’t show. Tim Sheehan looked like a perfectly respectable young man, but Casey was only twenty-one.
Casey was speaking again. “I brought Tim home with me because there is something you should know.”
Jillian, her heart sinking, tried to appear cheerful. “Very well. Shall I sit down?”
Casey nodded. “Perhaps we all should.” She waited until they were seated across from each other, Jillian directly opposite the two of them.
“Mum, Tim is Danny Browne’s stepson.”
It took a moment to register. When it did, Jillian could no longer hide her relief. “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all?”
“Danny Browne,” Casey repeated, “the Sinn Fein negotiator.”
“I’m not likely to forget who Danny Browne is, Casey,” said her mother.
“Then you approve?” Tim asked incredulously.
“I knew your mother well. That alone would be enough. Besides, why wouldn’t I approve of a young man from Trinity?”
“I’m a nationalist, Mrs. Graham.”
Jillian leaned forward. “That’s beside the point. We’ll all have to work harder at accommodating each other from now on. As it so happens—”
A loud crack split the night sounds and crashed against the plate window. A wall of glass separated and shattered, hurling deadly, stilettolike shards in every direction.
Reacting instinctively, Tim reached for Casey, dragging her with him as he crossed the distance to where her mother sat, pushed the two of them to the floor, and dropped, covering as much of them as he could with his body.
“What is it?” Casey screamed.
His voice against her ear was deadly calm. “A bomb. Stay down. It hasn’t gone off yet.”
The wait was no more than three seconds. A deafening boom shook the foundations, ripping apart the front pillars, demolishing the porch, and completely gutting the wood-beamed entry.
Jillian closed her eyes, clutched Casey’s hand, and prayed.
Eventually, the shaking stopped. “Do you have a fire extinguisher?” Tim asked calmly.
Jillian nodded and enfolded a sobbing Casey in her arms. “In the kitchen.” She bit her lip. “Please, check on Mrs. Wilson.”
Tim disappeared down the hall and came back with a pale-faced Mrs. Wilson and the fire extinguisher. Calmly, he broke the seal and proceeded to douse the flames.
Jillian stared at the remains of her porch. Then she laughed hysterically and pulled Casey and her housekeeper into a breath-stealing embrace.
“You’re not hysterical, are you, love?” Mrs. Wilson asked nervously, extricating herself from Jillian’s bear hug.
“No, Mrs. Wilson,” Jillian assured her. “I’m just so grateful that we’re all right.”
“Are you hurt, Jillian?” a quavering voice called out.
Jillian hurried to the door and helped the elderly Mrs. Byrne from next door over the rubble. Sirens bleated from down the road, louder and louder, until they stopped in front of the house. Neighbors came out of their houses and converged on Jillian’s lawn. Police in riot gear circled the house and slowly approached what was left of the entrance.
***
Frankie heard the news on the car radio just as he crossed the barricade into the city center. Throwing the stick into fourth gear, he increased his speed and careened wildly around the corner of Donegall Road toward the east side. The horror of the events blurting from the car speakers held him in a grip of pure terror. This was exactly what he had feared, what he had hoped to keep from Jillian. The trauma of a near-death experience and the threat of more had destroyed his marriage. He would not allow it to destroy what he now had, not even if it meant giving up Jillian.
His expression was grim. The war in Ulster was far from over. Her job was finished. His wasn’t. A compromise had been reached, an agreement that fulfilled her part of the bargain. He was still mired deeply in it, caught like a lamb pulled down into the sucking terror of bog mud. Splinter paramilitary groups would continue to terrorize those who promoted peaceful coexistence. Sinn Fein and the Catholics of Ulster would need his services for quite some time.
Tightening his hands on the steering wheel, Frankie cursed out loud. How had he come to this from those long-ago days in Kilvara when his dreams had included a university degree, a small clinic, and a girl with hair the color of sunlight?
A line of police cars barricaded the entrance to Jillian’s street. Dimming his headlights, he applied the brakes, turned down a side street, and killed his engine. He waited several minutes before leaving the car to jog down a back alley and vault over the brick wall of the house bordering Jillian’s. Dropping to a crouch position, he waited for the police patrol to pass by. Then he crept across the grass and hid in the shrubbery.
An ambulance was parked in the gravel driveway. There was no sign of Jillian. Frankie’s heart lurched painfully in his chest. Sweat beaded his forehead. If she was hurt— His jaw locked. Christ, had he found her only to lose her again? He wanted desperately to show himself and demand to see her. Fear of what he might find kept him silent.
Time slowed. Every sensation intensified a thousand times, the beetle crawling up his arm, the cramp in his leg, the painful, living rhythm of his heart, the smell of turned soil, the wet of dew-soaked leaves. Closing his eyes, he imagined her as he’d last seen her, moss-green eyes, hair streaked with summer sun, freckles peppering her nose, the faint sheen of heat on the bones of her cheeks, those absurd too-large glasses perched on the end of her nose, her mouth— Enough!
With a muffled curse, Frankie forged his way through the shrubbery, stomped the mud from his shoes, and walked through the side door into the house. He heard noises from the kitchen. Striding down the long hall, he followed the sounds, pausing in the doorway. For one startling, incredulous instant, he thought his mind had played a trick on him. He had expected to see a terrified and incoherent Jillian on the verge of shock, bolstered by Mrs. Wilson and the RUC.
Instead, seated on one side of the rectangular oak table were three elderly ladies in their bathrobes and slippers. Two had something that
looked like pink sponges in their hair. On the other side, hands clasped, were Tim and Casey. All were sipping tea and helping themselves to a plate piled high with biscuits. Jillian and Mrs. Wilson moved back and forth between the stove and the table, refilling tea pots and offering comfort.
“It was nothing, really, Mrs. Brooks,” he heard Jillian say. “Most of the damage was superficial and will be repaired by tomorrow evening.”
“Those dreadful people.” The old woman’s voice quavered. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
Jillian set the kettle down on the table, knelt by her side on the floor, and took the liver-spotted hands in her own. “There have always been those who need time to see the good in something new.”
“Aren’t you afraid for your family?”
Jillian tilted her head and thought before answering. “Whoever did this didn’t intend to murder anyone. There is no damage beyond the porch. Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Brooks.”
“I, for one, plan on staying right where I am,” said the woman with pink curlers in her blue-tinted hair. “No one will chase me from my home.”
Jillian stood. “I’m pleased to hear it. I have a phone call to make. Before I go, would anyone like more tea?”
A vicious poke from behind sent Frankie stumbling into the kitchen. “Who the hell are you?” demanded a man in the uniform of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.
Frankie found his balance at the same time as Jillian turned toward the door, saw him, and widened her eyes. “Frankie,” she said, and then to the policeman, “It’s all right. I asked him to come.”
He waited until she stood directly before him. “You’re all right,” he said, conscious of the curious eyes upon them.
“Yes.”
“I heard the news on the way over.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry if you were worried.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Christ, Jilly, of course I was worried.”
She lowered her voice. “Do you know who is responsible?”
He shook his head. “Probably someone who is unhappy with the progress we’ve made. There are hundreds of possibilities.”
“Then we won’t worry about it.”
He was baffled. She said it as calmly as if her porch was blown to bits every evening. “You could have been killed.”
“And so can everyone who walks the Ormeau Road every day. I imagine the danger is greater in London or New York or Los Angeles. None of that should stop us from living.”
“Who were you going to call?”
“You.”
“Not the prime minister?”
She looked surprised. “No. Why would I call him?”
“To resign, of course. You were the target because of your position. When that ends, so will the bombs.”
“There has been only one bomb, Frankie, and my position will be over soon enough. I’ll not leave before my time.”
Suddenly, he felt lighter, as if a terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in years, a scene flashed before him, a wild-eyed girl, all arms and legs and temper, throwing herself on the back of a bully. She had defended him against her brother that long-ago day in the Kildare stables, and he still remembered the rage it had called up within him. The woman standing before him was a Fitzgerald with a strain of fighting O’Flaherty blood. Perhaps she had more of that child in her than he knew.
“Da?” Tim’s voice intruded upon his thoughts.
Reluctantly, Frankie tore his eyes away from Jillian and smiled at his stepson. “I see that Casey found you, after all.”
“Aye.” Tim looked from Frankie to Jillian. “She told me you two knew each other.”
Frankie reached for Jillian’s hand and drew her close to his side. “We do.”
“She called you Frankie,” Tim said. “Does she know?”
“Aye. She’s always known.”
Casey’s eyes were round with surprise. “Does Tim know about me?”
Frankie shook his head. “Not specifically. He knows why I changed my name and that I have a niece. That’s the extent of it. Why don’t you tell him?”
Tim frowned. “Tell me what?”
Casey smiled. “Francis Maguire is my uncle. His sister was my mother before Mum adopted me. I didn’t know until my birthday, when I asked to see the records. It was a dreadful mix up, but it’s sorted out now. I hope you don’t mind,” she said anxiously.
He thought for a minute. “We aren’t actually related, are we?”
“Not by blood,” replied Casey, who had already worked out the details.
He grinned. “Then I don’t mind at all.”
Frankie cleared his throat. “Tim, about your mother. I loved her very much. I hope y’ know that.”
The young man nodded. “I do know it, Da.” His eyes rested on the possessive hold Frankie had on Jillian’s hand. “Perhaps we should take over in here while you two sort out things.”
Frankie looked at Jillian, really looked at her, and saw what he’d been too proud and too stubborn to recognize. He hadn’t wanted to love an Englishwoman, even one whose veins ran with the blood of Irish royalty. But this was Jillian Fitzgerald. Despite her Sean Ghall roots, she was Ulster born, and somehow, the cool remoteness of the English conquerors with their pale eyes and their long faces and their thin-lipped humorless smiles had transformed itself into this woman with a spine of Irish steel, an infinite reserve of compassion, and a desperate courage that had brought her to the brink of a love that all but those bordering insanity would proclaim impossible.
Frankie no longer saw Jillian Graham, British aristocrat, English rose. He saw a woman whose eyes were as blue-green and as secret-filled as the churning Atlantic, whose mouth had softened and opened under his, whose lips had marked his skin in private places, a woman who wasn’t afraid to say with words what was in her heart, a woman whose mind was razor-sharp, who covered the ground like the Kildare thoroughbred that she was, whose voice seduced and promised and caressed until he was mindless with wanting and waiting, until all reserves were spent, leaving him open and vulnerable, stretched out at her mercy, like a molting crab waiting for its shell to grow.
“You are going to get married, aren’t you?” Casey dropped her bombshell as calmly as if she were asking for nothing more than buttered bread.
For the first time in her life, Jillian refused the bait. This was Frankie’s cue. He was eyeing her warily. She met his glance without blinking.
“Have you thought it through, lass?” he asked, once again uncomfortably aware of their audience.
“What?” she asked sweetly.
“This marriage thing.”
“No.”
He glared at her. “Jillian—” Exasperated, he tightened his grip on her hand and led her out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the firelit drawing room. There, he closed the door, locked it, and faced her. His expression in the flickering light was stark and angry. “What in bloody hell did you mean by that?”
“By what?”
“You know we’ve discussed marriage.”
“Have we? My recollection is that I’ve mentioned it, and you wouldn’t hear of it, unless, of course, you’d gotten me pregnant. Has anything changed?”
“I’m Francis Maguire again.”
“Congratulations.”
“I love you.”
“You’re Catholic.”
“You said you’d convert.”
She gasped. “I never did.”
“You did, when you were ten years old.”
She crossed her arms and remained silent.
“Will you?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I have to?”
Across the room, hidden in th
e shadows of the netherworld, Nell frowned. This was not going well at all. These two people so made for each other were being unusually obstinate. If only she could show herself. Jillian always responded when Nell materialized. But she no longer had the power. She would have to rely on Frankie. He was pure Celt. His powers of perception would be stronger than Jillian’s.
Nell closed her eyes and willed her thoughts to travel across time and take hold in Frankie’s mind. Tell her you can’t live without her. Tell her the child has nothing to do with it. Tell her that you’ve always loved her.
Frankie swayed and pressed his fingertips against his forehead. His head felt as if it were splitting apart.
“What’s wrong?” Jillian asked.
“I’ve a headache, that’s all.”
Cool hands rested on his shoulders, urging him down on the couch. “Lie still,” she said. “I’ll fetch something.”
Tell her that you need her, that your happiness depends on her.
“Jillian.”
She stopped at the door. “Yes.”
“Don’t go.”
She hesitated. “What about your head?”
“I don’t need aspirin.”
Fool, you know nothing of women. Tell her now.
Frankie groaned. He wasn’t prone to headaches. What on earth was wrong with him?
Jillian knelt by his side and felt his head. He wasn’t feverish. “I can call the chemist. Perhaps he’ll recommend something.”
I need you.
“I need you,” Frankie whispered.
“What?” Could she possibly have heard him correctly?
“I’ve always needed you,” he confessed, reaching up to touch her cheek. “I’ve loved you since I was fourteen years old. Don’t abandon me now, lass. I want desperately to marry you, whether or not there’s a child.”
Better. Much better. You’re doing very well on your own now.
“I’m not Catholic.”
“I don’t care what you are, so long as you’ll have me.”
Jillian closed her eyes and lifted a shaking hand to her lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”
Miraculously, Frankie’s headache cleared. “I won’t have much t’ offer you, not for a while. But I’ve plans, lass.”
Nell Page 36
