“Aye, Kit,” he said softly, the whispered caress of his words sending sharp chills cascading down her spine. “Aye, lass, I’m threatening you. Take the boy and leave here.”
“I—” It was all she could say. She stood mutely staring at him, waiting.
He moved casually into the room, then stretched out on her bed, never taking his eyes from her. He leisurely laced his fingers behind his head. “Do you think I’m a murderer, then, Kit?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he mused. “If it’s the truth.” His voice hardened again. “Then why are you here?”
“I told you—”
“A lie.”
Anger finally drew Kit from her trembling subjugation. “It isn’t a lie, Justin. You’re welcome to call my publisher.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You bastard!”
“Get out, Kit.”
“What I do or don’t do isn’t your concern, Justin.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“But it is,” he said gravely.
She laughed, feeling a little hysterical. “How could I be in danger, Justin? Wouldn’t I be under your protection? Who would dare to assault a friend of the King of the High Hill?” Why didn’t she just tell him that she fully intended to leave the next day? she wondered. For that matter, why couldn’t she just shut up? Another laugh escaped her—she really was getting hysterical. “Or is it only your friends who are in danger—at least when they’ve offended you in some way?”
He spat out a furious expletive, then suddenly stood with startling agility. For a moment she felt fear, a weakness, as if she might pass out. His hands were very strong.
She remembered their touch. Inside she seemed to shake and shiver; she didn’t know if she was excited or terrified, attracted or repelled. She wanted to run into Mike’s room and lock the door between them, and at the same time she wanted to reach out and ease the lines of tension around his eyes, his mouth.
He moved toward her, and she tried to back away. She came up against the door to Mike’s room and was forced to brace herself there. She lashed out defensively. “I’m not eighteen anymore, Justin O’Niall! I can’t be manipulated! Told to leave—”
“You didn’t leave the first time I told you to, if I remember correctly,” he reminded her.
“Look,” she said, a bit desperately, “Justin, you were there when I needed you, and I thank you for that. Very much.”
“Do you really? Everyone else is trying to hang me.”
He spoke politely, casually. Kit knew then with an absolute certainty that he was innocent—that he really didn’t gave a damn what people thought, because he, too, knew that he was guiltless. But she also knew that he hadn’t forgotten the past any more than she had, and that there was something there that he hadn’t forgiven, either.
And he was moving closer to her.
“Justin, stop it! You have no right! You’re the one who has to get out of here. This is my room, and you’re interfering in my life.”
He paused, laughing, and despite herself she was enchanted by the sound. He probably hadn’t laughed much lately.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Kit? In your own words, I am the King of the High Hill. I can do anything I choose, and I choose to be here—interfering in your life.”
“Justin—”
“You shouldn’t have come here, Kit, if you didn’t want me to interfere.”
“I don’t see what—”
“Then you’re either blind or stupid, or you think that I am.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, stop it, will you? This is insane.”
He was walking toward her again, and she had nowhere to go. She would have melted into the wood of the door if she could have, but she couldn’t, so she simply stiffened her spine against it.
And then he was there, so close that he was almost touching her. He rested his palms against the door on either side of her head and stared into her eyes.
“We have to talk, Mrs. McHennessy.”
“We have to talk?” She felt nearly hysterical. “Justin, you’re being accused of murder, and you’re acting as if you’re not even concerned!”
“Kit.” He simply said her name, nothing more. Then he shifted his weight, and she felt his warmth running over her like a tide. He was striking. From the power of his eyes to the sensual, self-mocking curl of his lip. His features were as ruggedly chiseled as the cliffs that faced the sea, as proud, as strong. He was and always had been a law unto himself. The O’Niall. And when she had first known him…
He had been the gentlest man she had ever met, sensitive to her pain and to her youth. She’d seen him angry, true, but only against injustice. He’d been ruthless and determined—but only to send her home. He’d never touched her. Never come near her like this.
Until she had touched him…that night.
He ran his knuckles lightly over her cheek.
“Why are you here, Kit?”
“I told you—”
“Why?”
She felt like molten liquid, her knees unable to support her. “Because,” she rasped out at last.
“Because of what happened in the cottage?” he asked softly, and if anything, she began to tremble even more violently, because in his gentle tone she heard the same sensitivity she had once clung to for her life.
“Yes.”
She didn’t know that she had touched him, but suddenly her palms were against the soft wool of his sweater. She could feel his heat beneath the fabric, along with the pounding of his heart. She felt the tension coil in his muscles and the vibrancy of his life.
“Justin, that night…I was—I was drugged.”
“On passion?” he queried cynically. “What a wonderful excuse.”
“You son of a bitch!” she hissed at him. “I was young and innocent, and you seduced—”
“I beg to differ!” he interrupted curtly. Then his voice filled with softness again, softness and tenderness.
“I’d not have touched you, Kit. I tried to help you. You were young. Too young. But I was no saint; you seduced me.”
She felt the blood rush to her face. “Justin, something strange happened that night. Listen to me—I was drugged!” She was convinced that it wasn’t imagination or conjecture. It was the truth. Merely being here, seeing this place again, had convinced her of it.
“Something was strange that night. Maybe you’re right. Maybe—”
“There are no maybes!” Kit asserted furiously. “Oh! Why on earth are we having this conversation?”
“We’re going to have lots of conversations, Kit. But not now. Now, my love, you’re going to get away from here.”
“No one can make me—not even you!”
He stared at her for a moment, a curious mix of emotions flashing through his eyes before the cool shield fell over them once again. “Mrs. McHennessy, I’m no longer so taken by your youth or innocence, no longer beholden to protect you, as it were. In fact, I’m well aware of your lies, and I find myself thinking that no quarter should be granted.”
“I don’t know what—”
“But you do. You do. For now, though, get out. Go home. Run.”
“I don’t have to listen to you.”
“But you should.” His voice was soft again, and his words sounded like a warning.
“Don’t threaten me, Justin.”
“I’m not threatening you, Katherine. I’m asking you; I’m pleading with you!”
His voice was deep and fascinating; there was more command than pleading in it, despite his chosen words, but something in his tone brought her eyes to his. He watched her in return, and it seemed as if the years passed away. She knew him so well.
He touched her, and she didn’t resist. His left hand was at her nape, his fingers in her hair. The callused palm of his right hand was against her cheek, lifting her face.
And then his mouth descended to hers.
<
br /> There was no denying the power of his kiss. His lips covered hers, and she felt his sweet persuasion. His body was hard, and his muscles rippled beneath her fingers. His tongue moved deeply and intimately into her mouth, filling her with longing all the way to a coiling recess of desire deep inside of her.
She’d kissed other men. But drugs or no drugs, no man kissed like Justin. No man could touch her as Justin could.
She broke away from him at last. She wanted to say something, to curse him for what he’d done—for what he’d made her feel—but she couldn’t.
He smiled, and for a moment his dark lashes shadowed his cheeks. When he gazed at her again she felt weak all over, and then she was gasping for breath, because he had suddenly lifted her and deposited her on the bed, then lain down quickly beside her.
“Justin!”
Tenderness streaked through the darkness of his eyes, and he kissed her again, but this time his lips just brushed against her forehead.
“You grew up to be beautiful, Kit.”
“Justin…”
He sighed, started to move, then paused. Kit knew why. She could feel the pressure of his chest against her breasts, and she almost cried out herself, begging him not to move. It was absurd, though. So much stood between them.
He stood up and grabbed his trench coat. “Will you listen to me, please? Kit, go home. For God’s sake, go home.”
“I can’t. I have to know what happened that night. Why I was drugged—”
“I know why,” he interrupted quietly, resignation in his voice.
“You do?”
“It was in the tea,” he told her.
“You know for sure? You had it analyzed?”
“Strange thing, Kit. The tea disappeared, too,” he said. “Now you know, so go home.”
“I…can’t.”
His back was to her. He hesitated, then turned and spoke again. “The cottage on the cliff is empty, Kit. And if you stay, I’ll be close. Don’t ever doubt it.”
“This is absurd!” She tried for lightness. “I’m still amazed that you even remember me.”
His expression unreadable, he said, “Oh, I remember you well.” His eyes met hers briefly. “Very well. And since you’ve chosen to return…” He shrugged.
“What are you talking about?”
“Good night, Mrs. McHennessy.”
He closed the door sharply behind him as he left.
Kit started shaking, and all she could do was stare stupidly at her trembling hands. Finally she stood up and lit a cigarette, but after only a few puffs she coughed, then crushed it out.
What was she doing here? she asked herself over and over again. The hell with the past. She should just get out. Justin himself had told her to. He didn’t want her here. Eight years had passed since she had seen him last, but that last time…
What had she been doing in bed with him? True, she had been drugged, but even so, it had made no sense.
He had agreed with her! she suddenly realized. They had been drugged. It had been the tea.
Kit closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think. She was tired, and she was going to undress and go to sleep. She had to go to sleep. She had to stop thinking—or go mad.
It was easy to get ready for bed, but sleep was another matter entirely. She was tired, but all she could do was toss and turn, until she finally fell asleep. And then she began to dream.
It was an instant replay of a past that would not be put to rest. She could see the cliff; she could hear the howling of the wind. She dreamed of death, of ghosts, of laughing banshees….
The cottage was there, surrounded by darkness, eerily lit by the strange reflections of a glowing moon. Bagpipes played a mournful note, and the wind rose and fell, rose and fell….
There was firelight. Michael was laughing, teasing her, holding her, pinning her to the bed. Telling her of ancient rites. Of a druid, clothed in a black cloak, of the horned mask of the goat-god, the fertility god…
Then Michael was gone, and the goat-god stood before her in his mask and cape. She wanted to scream, to fight, but she couldn’t move from the bed. The goat-god touched her, and to her horror and shame, she wanted him….
And then the goat-god wasn’t a goat-god at all, but Justin O’Niall, rising above her in the darkness. She saw his face in the moon glow, determined and satanic, his features taut with naked purpose…and desire.
She wanted him. Wanted his touch against her bare flesh. But when she looked at him again, the mask was back. All she knew was the pressure of his hands on her flesh, lifting her hips, caressing her….
Only his eyes remained visible to her, on fire with the light of the moon. She opened her mouth to scream. She was suffocating…choking….
Kit jerked upright in the darkness.
She was soaked with perspiration, trembling.
The clock at her bedside was ticking steadily away, and the moon was casting a gleam of silver through the window, illuminating her simple room. Not far away, Mike was sleeping in his own bed.
Kit leaned back against her pillow, glancing at the clock. It was three o’clock in the morning.
Eight years wasn’t really such a long time. Not such a long time at all.
CHAPTER 4
The phone was ringing. Kit threw her hand out, barely opening her eyes, as she fumbled for the receiver. It was morning; she could tell by the brightness assaulting her eyes. She was exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept at all.
“Hello?” she managed to mumble into the receiver.
“It’s Douglas, Mrs. McHennessy. Douglas Johnston.”
“Oh! Good morning, Douglas.”
“I woke you. I’m sorry. But it’s Monday morning, ye know, and I was thinking about your son. I thought you might need some time to yerself to work, and that ye might be willing for the boy to come to school with me.”
“Oh,” Kit murmured. “Ah…thank you, Doug; that’s very thoughtful of you….” Her voice trailed away as she tried to think quickly. She wasn’t sure she wanted Mike out of her sight. He was awake, though, and hurtling himself onto her bed.
“Who is it, Mom?”
“Mr. Johnston.”
“What does he want?”
“Kit?” Doug’s voice came to her over the phone.
“I’m sorry, Doug, excuse me just a second.” Kit covered the mouthpiece with her hand and stared at her son. “Would you like to go to Mr. Johnston’s school for the day, Mike?”
“Oh, boy!” Mike was off the bed before she could say any more. “I’m getting dressed right now,” he called to her, racing back to his own room.
Kit lifted her hand away from the receiver. “Douglas, Mike is very eager to come to school with you. Thank you very much. Where is the school? Shall I drive him?”
“No, no, Mrs. McHennessy. I’ll stop by in say, twenty minutes. And I’ll have him back to Jamie’s by three.”
Kit thanked Doug, then hung up. Actually, it was perfect. She could go into Cork and visit the bookstore, then be back by three. After that, she and Mike could go to the cliffs he wanted to see so badly, and still be back by five.
Then she could decide whether to stay another night or not.
“I’m ready, Mom!”
Kit’s gaze traveled to the connecting door. She lowered her eyelids with a little smile. Mike was ready—after a fashion. His shirttail was half in and half out, and his socks didn’t match.
“Mike, you’ve got a minute or two. Tuck your shirt in right and please—! Dig out some socks that match.”
Kit scrambled out of bed, silently swearing at Justin O’Niall. He had cost her a good night’s sleep. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and crawled into beige slacks, a woolly sweater and a blue blazer. She quickly put on a minimum of makeup and glanced at her watch, shaking her head with amazement. Only eight minutes had passed since Doug had called.
“Mike, let’s get downstairs and see if Jamie can give you something to eat.”
Jamie already had breakfa
st set out on the table in the sunny kitchen. He told Kit that Douglas Johnston had called him, too, to make sure that Mike had something to eat.
“He’s a thoughtful lad, our Douglas!” Jamie told Kit proudly.
Mike—who usually ate only a bowl of cereal for breakfast—obediently wolfed down toast, eggs, bacon and a serving of porridge. Then Douglas was at the door, and Kit was thinking again that he’d grown into quite a handsome young man.
She set down her teacup when Douglas entered, and stood to thank him again. She walked outside with him and Mike, noting with approval that Douglas immediately reminded Mike to fasten his seat belt. Kit stood by the driver’s side of the car.
“This really is nice of you, Douglas.”
“Not at all.” His eyes sparkled. “But, I will admit, I’ll be much obliged if the lad’s mother would consider havin’ supper with me, somewhere along the line.”
“That would be very nice,” she said, for the moment ignoring the fact that she might not be there beyond today. “Oh, Doug! Speaking of mothers, how’s yours? I’ve been terrible not to ask; Molly was so kind to me when—”
“Me ma is doin’ just fine, Mrs. McHennessy. She’s heard you’re in town, and she’s anxious to see you. She’s still working fer Justin during the day, if ye’ve a mind to drop in during the afternoon. She’d be anxious to see the lad, too, I know.”
Kit nodded, a smile glued to her face, as she stepped away from the car.
“Bye, Mom!” Mike called, waving happily, and she waved in return.
Back inside, she sternly reminded herself that she was writing a book, so she gathered her notepad and pocket tape recorder and started off for Cork.
It took her longer to find the Shamus Bookstore than she had expected, and she could have kicked herself for not getting decent directions. But once she had found it—and met Mrs. McNamara, a pretty young woman with wonderful enthusiasm and energy—she was glad she had made the effort.
King of the Castle Page 6
