by Lila Dubois
“Mary, are you alright?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I might have a concussion.”
“You’re hurt? Stay there, I’ll take you to a doctor.”
“I’m fine. I don’t have a concussion, I just wish I did.”
This was the strangest conversation he’d ever had. Michael folded his arms on the sill and leaned out. “And why would you wish that?”
“Because that might explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Why I can’t stop thinking about you. Why I feel this way.”
Michael held up a hand. “Hold on, I’m coming down.”
He closed the window and shoved his feet in slippers. Pulling on a jumper as he made his way downstairs, he fervently hoped his mother, asleep in her room at the end of the house, hadn’t heard anything.
Opening the kitchen door, he motioned her to come in, but Mary shook her head. Resigned, he stepped out into the night.
When he was close, Mary dipped her head, as if embarrassed.
“What’s happening, Mary?” There was enough light that he could see her bite her lip.
“I have to tell you that I’m sorry, about earlier today.”
“I wish I understood what happened.”
“This place is…it’s hard, being here.”
“I understand.”
“Wait.” She held up a hand. “It’s hard because…because I feel like I belong. This isn’t home, that’s Chicago, but this doesn’t feel foreign. It should, but it doesn’t, and that scares me.”
“You were born here, this is where your people are from. Why would it feel foreign?”
“Why wouldn’t it?” Mary shook her head, and for the first time met his gaze. “I thought that I was using you as a way to keep myself from facing my past—I didn’t want to do that.”
Michael nodded, disappointed, but understanding. “That does make sense to me.”
“It does? It did to me too, but I don’t think it’s right.”
He crossed his arms. “Now I’m a mite confused, pretty Mary.”
“So am I, but I don’t think that you, that us, takes away from my learning about my parents, or my family here, or where I came from.”
“I would never stand in the way of that, and would never want to.”
“Of course not, you’re the one who helped me get started.”
“Well I didn’t want to be rude by pointing that out…”
She smiled, and in the starlight, her beauty was a glorious thing to see. “That’s very big of you.”
“My Ma raised me to be a gentleman.”
“And a gentleman you are.” She took a breath and let it out, the movement clearly deliberate. “And I think that’s one of the reasons I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Now it was his turn to grin. “That’s a nice thing to hear. And is that why you’re here, knocking on my window in the wee hours of the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t have your number.”
“And how did you know I’d be here?”
“Drove past and saw your car.”
“And what if that had been my mother’s window?”
“I would have been really, really embarrassed.”
Michael laughed softly. “Come inside, I’ll make us tea.”
“No, I’m going back to the hotel. I want to get some sleep, I just couldn’t wait to tell you that I was wrong. I had this feeling like…like if I didn’t tell you how I felt right away something bad would happen. Also I wanted to ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“I have a list of places, tourist type places, that my grandparents said I had to visit. Would you…would you go with me? If you don’t have to go back to Dublin.”
“Mary, I’d be delighted. Shall I pick you up at midday?”
“Yes, thank you.” Mary smiled one last time and started to walk away.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Michael caught her by the elbow. Inch by inch he drew her toward him, giving her every opportunity to resist or turn away. She did neither. He held her gaze for a long moment before closing his eyes and lowering his mouth to hers. She tasted like cool night air and mint.
He ended the kiss, respecting her wish to leave. “Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” She touched his cheek, her gaze searching his face.
He let her go, though he wanted to scoop her up and carry her inside. When she reached the gate she looked back. “Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for the flowers.”
He watched her climb into the car and drive away, a smile on his face.
* * * *
They went to Tara.
The seat of the high kings of Ireland was now no more than grassy hills, but Michael took pictures of Mary that she could send back to her grandparents, then dropped to one knee before her and in his thickest brogue, pledged his honor as a member of the Fianna to her.
She played along, thanking him for his service and then demanding that he go slay her a dragon. Tutting at her lack of education, he explained that a proper member of the Fianna would be hunting Fomorians, not dragons. Those were just big snakes that lived in England and didn’t she know St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland?
“The timeline seems a little muddled.” She plucked tatty postcards from a rack in the small gift shop. “You’re saying that St. Patrick was a contemporary of the Fomorians and dragons?”
“You’ll ruin it if you insist on accuracy.” He shook his head in mock sadness.
“My apologies. Facts? Useless things.”
“You did say you worked in television, didn’t you?”
“Oh, that’s cold, Michael Baker. That’s cold, especially coming from someone who worked in real estate. Didn’t you and your friends break the whole world?”
“Fair enough.”
The next day they went to Trim Castle, which was now famous for having been used as most of the castles in most of the movies which needed imposing castles. The view from the top was unparalleled, and they stayed there long after the rest of the tour group had left, examining the landscape.
“And what’s that?” She pointed, dark hair whipping around her face despite the band she’d used to try to contain it.
“That’s a river.”
She rolled her eyes, then shivered as a particularly strong gust of wind ripped over the stone rampart.
Michael wrapped an arm around her. “That’s the River Boyne. It runs from its source in County Kildare and enters the Irish Sea near Drogheda.”
A day after that they toured graveyards and old stone churches in Kells. Once they’d studied the past, they wallowed in the present, eating a dinner of fish and chips out of oil stained paper bags, then stopped for a pint in a little country pub half way between the town of Kells and Glenncailty.
Mary set down the glass with a grimace. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Give it time, give it time.” The bartender leaned over. “Too long in America and your blood forgot.”
Mary eyed the pint of Guinness Michael had ordered her. “It’s so thick.”
“Well of course it is. And it used to be that even doctors would tell you it’s good for you, back before they got so fancy with their city ways.”
“Good for you? Really? It’s beer.”
Michael put a hand on his chest in shock. “Beer? That’s sacrilege.”
The bartender shook his head mournfully.
“It’s not beer?” She looked around, confused.
“Of course it’s not beer. It’s Guinness.” At her disgruntled expression, Michael took pity on her and ordered her a pint of Bulmer’s cider and took her Guinness for himself.
He dropped her off at Glenncailty Castle a few hours, and a second pint, later. The castle was cold and imposing, but Mary didn’t seem to care. Michael kissed her goodnight in the foyer, every ounce of willpower he possessed in use to ensure that he didn’t follow her to her room. As he turned to leave, he cau
ght sight of one of the staff on the stairs. He paused, ready to say hello to Liam’s wife Kristina, but the figure wavered. What he’d thought was Kristina’s pale skin and hair was really silvery mist. The pattern of the carpet runner was visible though the translucent outline of the woman.
Michael’s heart leapt into his throat. It was one of the Glenncailty ghosts.
The woman’s head turned, gaze fixing on the east wall of the foyer. Michael shivered as a wave of anger and sadness washed over him. He realized they weren’t his feelings, they were coming from her. He’d seen things science wouldn’t explain before, but this was the first time he’d ever experienced anything this vivid. Looking at the hallway Mary had disappeared down, he wondered if he should go after her. If the ghosts were out, he didn’t want to leave her alone, and he had an eerie feeling the woman on the stairs was staring through the solid stone walls at Mary.
When he looked back the ghost was gone. Warily, he made his way to the second floor of the east wing. There were no ghosts lurking. He crept down the hall until he was just outside Mary’s room. Feeling like a fool—if a ghost came what could he do?—he positioned himself against the wall and stood guard throughout the night. His eyes were gritty and his feet aching before the first hints of light showed through the window at the end of the hall. Silent and weary, he finally left, sure the daylight would protect her. A few hours of sleep and then more than a few cups of tea should have him up in time to answer emails and do enough work that he didn’t need to return to Dublin. He could always cancel today’s date with Mary, but he’d rather suffer from lack of sleep than miss even one moment of her company.
* * * *
The woman watched the man standing guard over his beloved. Once a man had tried his best to protect and guard her. He was dead now, as was she. And like her, this woman would push her love away.
Prideful, foolish girl.
The woman had paid for her pride, her foolishness, with her life. Anger rose in the woman, anger and fear and sorrow choked her, a chain wrapping around her and binding her to this place.
My foolish little girl.
Chapter 8
It had been a week since she’d arrived at Glenncailty Castle. Seven short days and yet it felt like a lifetime. Each day was filled with pleasure and joy as she toured the country and came to understand her birthplace, bittersweet sadness as she met with people who’d known her parents, and warm anticipation as she spent more and more time with Michael. He’d been her guide to many of the places on her grandparents’ “must see” list and sometimes sat in when she met with people at the pub. They spent a dusty day looking through parish records learning about her family, and he’d helped her scan some of the photos they found. He’d even spoken with her grandparents on Skype.
Her grandmother remembered him as a little boy, and hearing her tell stories much like those Rose Baker had—about how she and Michael had played together when they were too small to remember—had brought tears to Mary’s eyes for reasons she couldn’t fully explain. When Michael asked Emer if she and Brenden would be coming home for a visit, Mary’s grandmother had airily said that they’d been thinking about it, and would no doubt come sometime in the summer.
Mary’s jaw had nearly hit the floor. Her grandparents never talked about coming back. It was too painful. That’s why they’d sent her. Yet one conversation with the handsome Michael Baker, and Emer Callahan was talking casually about returning to the country she’d left twenty-eight years ago.
Tonight, Michael had treated her to a fancy dinner in Glenncailty’s posh restaurant. The chef, a handsome French man, had come to their table personally to check on them. The food was wonderful, the wine even more so, and as she looked at Michael, his blue eyes and smiling lips, she knew she couldn’t wait any more. The heat that had been building between them every time he took her hand, wrapped his arm around her, or kissed her, was too hot to be contained.
“That was a lovely meal, and an even more lovely woman I shared it with.” Michael propped his shoulder on the wall as Mary unlocked the door to her room.
When the portal swung open, she turned to him, took his hand. The smile faded from Michael’s eyes, his gaze now sharp and intense.
“I’m not ready to say goodnight.” She laced her fingers with his.
“We could go down to the pub for a pint.”
“Or you could come in.”
“If I do I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”
“Good. I don’t want you to.” Mary drew him in with her. This time he didn’t stop her.
She felt both fragile and strangely powerful. Maybe this was a mistake—maybe it was too soon, maybe it would ruin what she had with this man who she’d come to care so deeply about. Ignoring her doubts and fears, she went with what her heart wanted, and that was Michael.
Rather than waiting for him to initiate, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. She opened her mouth, tracing the seam of his lips with her tongue. He tasted like wine and sugar from dessert, and the faint stubble on his cheek abraded her chin. Michael started, and for a moment she worried she’d been too aggressive, but his arms wrapped around her hips, jerking her against him.
She nipped his lower lip, then sucked it gently. Michael’s tongue dipped into her mouth, tasting her, possessing her. When they broke for air, Michael’s erection was pressed against her belly.
“I’ve just thought of something.” Michael looked like he was in pain.
“What?”
“I don’t have a condom.”
“Oh. I’m on birth control. Have you been tested?”
“Tested for what?”
Mary smiled. “When was the last time you had sex?”
“Not that long ago…”
Mary tipped her head, giving him a skeptical look. Michael blew out a breath. “Five years. It’s been five years.”
“Oh, that’s just sad.”
“No need to tell me.”
“I’m clean and I’d say that with my birth control we’re safe enough.”
Michael cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “Mary Callahan, you're not the type of woman a man should rush to the bedroom.”
Something in her melted at his words. He saw her as something unique and beautiful—saw her in a way no other man in her life ever had.
“Michael Baker, I'm the kind of woman who knows what she wants.”
“And what you do want, pretty Mary?”
“You.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then, with a groan, gave in. His arms were tight around her, his lips demanding in a kiss that was both desperate and tender.
Primal awareness tingled through her. He made her feel alive and wanton. His hands were at her waist and when she leaned away, they slid down to her ass. Catching the hem of his jumper, she pulled it and the shirt below up enough to touch his bare belly. Muscles rippled under her fingers and Mary wanted to lick him, bite him, make him feel what she did.
Michael's hands were on her ass, hiking her up. She wrapped her legs around him, her skirt riding up to her hips. She was wearing silky black tights, but they didn't feel like much of a barrier as he lowered her to the bed. Reaching for her waistband, she prepared to help him with her clothes, but he stopped her.
“Let me,” he whispered.
Starting at her toes, he stripped her—removing her shoes, then reaching under her skirt for her tights. When her legs were bare, he kissed the top of each foot and rested her right heel on his shoulder as he nibbled and licked her ankle.
Her toes curled. She could feel the simple, soft touch along every nerve ending in her body.
She had never been so aroused so quickly before.
“Michael, I want you, now.”
“And I want you—” He lifted her from the bed and stood her up before taking a seat. “—to take off the rest of your clothes.”
Mary stepped back, ducking her head as a little curl of embarrassment dampened her arousal. She was pret
ty enough, but her belly wasn’t exactly ab-model worthy and she hadn’t had a bikini wax in weeks.
“Mary, take off your clothes.”
His words pierced her, and before her insecurities could gain the upper hand she unbuttoned her gray silk blouse. Holding it closed over her breasts, she looked at him through her lashes.
Michael sat on the bed, legs spread, hands gripping his knees. His gaze was hooded, focused on her.
Slowly, she removed her shirt, revealing the camisole beneath. She could tell that he was fighting to hold still, fighting to keep from touching her, and she wanted to make him lose control.
Rather than pulling the tank off, she slid the straps down her arms. Catching them with her fingers, she tugged so the fabric inched down her breasts, revealing the smooth satin of her bra. When the camisole was bunched around her waist, she reached for the side zip of her skirt, again moving slowly, deliberately. Once unzipped it didn’t fall, but stayed up, loose around her waist but still covering her.
Michael made a noise low in his throat as he jerked forward, as if he'd grab her, but at the last minute he settled back.
Mary took her bunched camisole and pulled it off. She gave her hair a little shake, feeling the long tendrils touching her back. Balancing her forearms on top of her head, she looked at Michael. His gaze wandered up her belly to her breasts, then to her face.
“You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.”
Mary closed her eyes. It was nothing more than a cheesy line, one she should have laughed away. But instead it struck her like an arrow to the heart—she believed that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Opening her eyes, she took a breath, then rocked her weight from foot to foot, her hips swaying, until her skirt gave up its tenuous hold and fell to the floor.
There was a beat, a moment when they regarded each other—her nearly naked, standing before him like an offering, Michael a barely restrained force of nature.
Then the silence broke. Michael shot up from the bed. Taking her by the hips, he kissed her hard and deep. His cock was hot, even through his slacks, against her belly. Mary linked her arms behind his neck and curled one leg over his hip.
