King of the Castle

by Heather Graham

  When she thought that she would explode with the sweetness, he was suddenly gone. Bereft and astonished, she gasped again, then shuddered when he caught her foot and knelt to kiss her sole, her instep, her knees, her thighs, then higher and higher until she was nearly sobbing. Only then did he sheathe himself once more within her softness, and then Kit felt herself shatter, shaking with the ultimate sensations that swept through her.

  Justin was watching her, his forefinger moving lazily over her cheek. He was smiling, and she felt just a bit furious, because he knew the extent of his power.

  She lowered her lashes, still gasping for breath, annoyed that she was blushing. “You’re a torturer,” she accused him.

  “Me!”

  “You…you…what you did. I was already…”

  He laughed, and the sound was rich and sweet and intimate. “Me!” he repeated. “You sat there with that damn brush for half an hour.”

  “It was only ten minutes.”

  “And then, when I went to you—in pathetically desperate shape to begin with—you turned around and drove me nearly through the roof.”

  “You didn’t…like it?”

  “I adored it—but you deserved exactly what you got in turn.” He arched one brow and repeated her own words. “You didn’t like it?”

  She opened her mouth, hesitated, then smiled and admitted, “I think I died a little bit.”

  He smiled, leaned forward and kissed her lips. Kit curled contentedly against him, running her fingers over the fascinating whorls of dark hair on his chest as he slipped an arm about her, cradling her against him. For several minutes they were silent. Kit didn’t want to break the beauty of the moment. She wanted to pretend that there was nothing wrong, that no mysteries lay between them.

  Finally, though, she spoke. “Justin?”

  “Hmm?”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Aye, we do.”

  She felt as if he was watching her intently, but she didn’t know why. She raised herself against his chest and stared into his eyes. They were so dark, dark and elusive.

  She was in love with him, but she didn’t know what he wanted from her, only that, like her, he had his secrets.

  She splayed her fingers over his chest and rested her chin on them. “Justin, when I was here before, I always felt like someone was watching me.” She raised herself again. “As if the trees had eyes. As if someone wanted to know…every move I made.”

  She didn’t like his expression. He was smiling, as if he was thinking she had a very vivid imagination.

  “The trees?”

  “Damn it, you know what I mean!”

  He sighed. “No, Kit, I don’t. I assure you—when I wanted to see you, I came to you. I was not in the trees spying on you!”

  “I didn’t say you were!”

  “Kit, you were very upset. Your husband had just died.”

  “It didn’t make me crazy!” she snapped.

  He sighed again. “Okay, so someone was watching you. What’s the point you’re trying to make?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Angry, she turned away from him and got up to find her gown. Having it on didn’t make her feel at all dressed, so she mumbled something unintelligible and slammed open the closet door to find a robe. Justin watched her in cool silence. She slipped into her robe and walked over to the window, where she drew back the curtains. The night was black, and the ceaseless wind moaned softly. She could see the gorse and bracken flattening against it. Beyond, the surf would be rising and falling angrily against the rugged, timeless cliffs.

  “Kit?” He spoke softly at last. He didn’t move, but watched her from the bed.

  She didn’t turn to him, continuing to stare out pensively at the night. “What?”

  “I’m not trying to make you angry. I’m just saying that you were very young and upset—”

  “I wasn’t stupid or psychotic.”

  He hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was low and even. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, Kit.”

  Kit gritted her teeth. “Justin, you’re refusing to take any of this seriously.”

  “I take it very seriously. After all, I’m the one who’s suspected of murder.”

  He fell silent, and suddenly she walked back and knelt upon the bed. “Justin, something was going on. Agreed? On the night I came here with Michael, a young girl—who had been claiming that her illegitimate child was yours!—was murdered. That same night, Michael died on the cliffs. You say he fell; I say he was murdered. And then, three months later, someone drugged the tea in my kitchen so I would seduce you—”

  “Kit, now you’re pushing the line between fact and supposition!”

  “You said yourself—”

  “Aye, the tea was tampered with; we both wound up under its influence. But, Kit, I think some poor soul meaning only the best for you fixed that tea. Someone meaning to give you rest and oblivion and ease from your grief. Think about what you’re saying. No one even knew that I’d be there! And what is this leading to, anyway?”

  “To the O’Niall.”

  His eyes narrowed sharply, and his fists clenched on the sheets. “I’d thought you’d decided I was an innocent man, Mrs. McHennessy.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth!”

  “It doesn’t appear that I need to; you’ve spoken quite a mouthful without my help.”

  “You’re impossible!” she flared, leaning back against the headboard in disgust. “I’m trying to help you—”

  “But I don’t need any help, Mrs. McHennessy, and I’ll thank you to be remembering that!”

  Kit muttered something about exactly what he could do with himself and leaped out of bed. She didn’t stop for slippers, but charged down the stairs to the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of still-warm coffee and splashed a generous dose of brandy into it. She was close to tears. It seemed as if they got so close…and then he blocked her out. He had to care; he had to be worried. Why couldn’t she get through to him?

  Suddenly she screamed as a pair of arms slipped around her waist.

  “Kit, I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t mean to scare you, just to apologize.”

  She turned to face him. His chest was still bare, but he had a towel wrapped snugly around his waist. “May I join you?” he asked. He poured himself a cup of coffee and poured some brandy into it. “Irish whiskey would be better,” he murmured lightly, flashing her a smile that went unreturned.

  He walked into the living room, setting down his cup so he could put another log on the fire. Then he reached for his coffee and sat down cross-legged before the fire, patting the space beside him and nodding to her.

  Kit hesitated, then sat stiffly next to him. She lowered her head. “There’s nothing left for me to say if you won’t take me seriously, Justin.”

  “I do take you seriously. But, Kit, you’re talking madness.”

  “Just listen to me, please,” Kit beseeched him. “Justin, I think that someone else might be mad. In ancient times your people, the O’Nialls, were the local kings. And after that they were political and religious leaders. Fact, not supposition. The goat-god—in the person of the O’Niall—took his virgin and conceived his son, and then his bride was sacrificed the next year so that her blood could feed the land.”

  “Kit, you’re talking ancient history.”

  “And you’re getting angry again.”

  “Well, I don’t always care to be reminded that I can actually trace my ancestors to people who did such things.”

  “You always laugh about it.”

  “Sometimes, aye. One has to wonder what happened if he chose a barren virgin.”

  “Now you’re laughing again.”

  “Well, you were just complaining that I was angry. Make up your mind.”

  “Justin—”

  “I’m sorry, Kit, I just don’t believe it. It’s too preposterous.”

  “You wanted me to leave,” she said accusingly. “Why? And why the bolts on the door? You
’re afraid of something.”

  “Well, of course I am!” he snapped. He drew in a breath and sipped his coffee, staring at the fire. “Kit, if a shark attacked a child at a beach, it would probably have swum far away by the next week. But I’m willing to admit no parent would allow his child to play on that beach for a long, long time.”

  Kit watched him for a minute, then shook her head gravely. “I know I’m right, and I think you know it, too. There’s too much going on here for coincidence. The next murder victim was your fiancée—”

  “She wasn’t my fiancée.”

  “But the world thought she was.”

  He turned to her. “And there goes your theory, shot to hell. Susan certainly hadn’t had my baby. She didn’t create the new O’Niall. Nor was Mary’s child mine, and anyone with a brain in their head knew that.”

  Kit stood up restlessly, sipping her coffee, retreating to the safety of a chair. “We have to find out—”

  “Kit, the police have been through all of this. Dozens of police, from here, from Dublin. The Accorns have had private investigators working here—and no one has learned a damn thing. Look, I appreciate your concern for me; I really do. But I don’t want you running around trying to find a murderer. If you’re right, and the killer is from around here, you could put yourself in real danger. If I had a brain in my head, I wouldn’t let you stay here at all.”

  Kit felt a shiver inch its way along her spine. She lowered her eyes and stared into her coffee cup. “I’m all right,” she murmured.

  “Are you?”

  She glanced back at him and found him staring at her with a penetrating intensity. She couldn’t meet that gaze.

  “Of course. The bolts are on the door. I’m sensible and I’m careful.”

  “Well, be sure you are,” he muttered dryly. His gaze left her as he stared into the fire.

  Suddenly he threw his cup into the fireplace, shattering it against the brick, sending the flames lapping and hissing to new heights. And then he was on his feet, very much the pagan lord, with the golden firelight playing over his shoulders and torso, his arms braced tautly across his chest. Kit had started violently at the sound of the cup crashing; now she saw the look on his face and dropped her own cup with a little cry, unable to move, unable to escape.

  He walked over to her, pinning her in her chair as he leaned over to brace himself against it and stare into her eyes.

  “You’re the prime candidate, you know. According to your theory, that is.”

  Her lips were dry, and she couldn’t talk. She shook her head in confusion.

  “What…what are you talking about?” she managed at last.

  “What am I talking about? When the hell are you going to tell me?” He was shouting, and she could see him trembling with the force of the emotions sweeping through him. “Damn it! Why did you come back then? What are you waiting for?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How can you pretend not to know? I’ve given you every opportunity to tell me truth.”

  “I’ve never lied to you!”

  “But you haven’t told the truth, either!”

  Kit stared at him and felt the heat that flowed between them. She knew…she knew that he knew. She didn’t know how he had discovered the truth, but she couldn’t face him this way. She was afraid. She lowered her eyes quickly. “Get out of here, Justin.”

  She tried to speak imperiously. And then she tried to rise and brush past him, but he wouldn’t allow it. He grasped her hands and pulled her hard against him.

  “Justin—”

  His fingers threaded into her hair, and tears stung her eyes when she was forced to look up at him.

  “Mike, Kit. Mike. When were you going to tell me that he’s my son?”

  She gasped. She hadn’t realized that he’d had any suspicions.

  “You’re wrong!” she lied desperately.

  “No, Kit. No good. I made a few calls the moment I left you in the cemetery that very first day. He was premature, Kit. Very convenient for you, because you wanted him to be Michael’s. You even tried to lie to yourself.”

  “Michael could have—”

  “Stop it, Kit. Stop it.” She realized that tears were streaming down her face only when he gently brushed them away and pulled her tightly against his body, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. And then he was whispering words she barely understood, soothing things, gentle things, caring things. He picked her up and carried her back to the chair, where he sat down and held her on his lap, breathing tender kisses over the top of her head.

  “He is my son, Kit. Mike is my son.”

  She gave a small sob, and her answer was barely audible. “Yes. I—I did want to believe he was Michael’s. I was so young then. Alone. Afraid. I didn’t know what to do. I had to live the lie.”

  “I love you, Kit. I loved you then, and I love you now.” He hesitated. “I know that you loved Michael McHennessy. But he’s gone. You can’t bring him back by living a lie.”

  She didn’t answer him. She was shivering and she didn’t know what anything meant anymore. She was still too stunned that he had guessed, and then she wondered if she had been blind not to have realized that he might.

  But then, at the beginning, she hadn’t even known if he would remember her….

  And maybe, in the deepest recesses of her mind, she had told herself to come here on purpose. Maybe she had thought that Michael had a right to a living parent, rather than a hallowed memory.

  But what did it mean…?

  She leaned back, searching Justin’s eyes. She was looking for something, but she didn’t know what, and she was afraid that she would start crying again.

  “Us…you and I…Justin, was it all because you wanted to know about Mike?”

  He stroked her cheek, smiling tenderly. “No, love, I swear it. ‘Us’ is because it was always meant to be. ‘Us’ is because I couldn’t stay away from you. Because you’re incredibly sexy and beautiful, and because I’ve spent my life dreaming about you since we met. I love you, Kit.”

  She dared to reach out then and touch his face. The words were difficult to form after so many years, but the emotion was there, deep and rich, when at last she said, “I love you.”

  For a moment he was silent as he continued to watch her with the utmost tenderness, but then his smile faded, and his arms tightened around her. “Do you understand now why I want you to leave?”

  She shook her head.

  “Kit, according to your own theory, you’re the one who should die. You’re the one who was taken by the O’Niall. The one to give the land a son.”

  “The one who’s supposed to be sacrificed.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Mom! Mom!”

  Mike’s frantic cry penetrated Kit’s worried thoughts as she flipped an egg in the frying pan. She shoved the frying pan away from the heat and rushed out the front door, frowning. Mike was still yelling for her, bent over something on the walk.

  “Mike?”

  She went to join him, crouching to look down herself. When she did, she was so startled that she clapped her hand to her mouth, holding back her own scream.

  Lying on the stone walk was another stone, shaped into a miniature altar. And on the stone was a naked doll. It was almost a foot in length, with long, wild hair. It was on its back, and across its throat was a blood-red line, and some sticky red substance had been splashed all over the stone.

  “Oh, God!” she gasped.

  Mike looked at his mother’s white face, stricken. “I’ll throw it away, Mom. You look so upset.”

  “No!” she screeched. “No, Mike, don’t touch it. Maybe there are fingerprints or something. Don’t touch it.”

  “Fingerprints? We’re going to call the police?”

  “What?” Kit was appalled by the excitement in Mike’s face. She shivered, wanting him to understand how serious this was, and also wanting to shield him from terror and ugliness. “Yes, Mike, I’m going to
call the constable.”

  “Barney?”

  “No. Liam O’Grady is the constable here,” she said. “Barney works in Bailtree. And you—you come inside right now.” The doll could easily be a warning, not just an obscene joke. And whoever had left it might still be nearby. “Come on, young man, come inside.”

  “Douglas will be here any second—”

  “And he’ll knock on the door! Come inside now!”

  She caught his hand and dragged him inside. She caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror and saw that she was very white, with huge purple shadows under her eyes. She’d been upset all weekend, even before this.

  Friday night had been exquisite, at least for a while, but then it had become Saturday, and Mike had come home. No matter how she tried, Kit had found herself growing more nervous and distant. Justin knew about Mike. He must have hired a private investigator to check into Mike’s birth.

  On Friday, as tender as Justin had been, she’d been too emotional to talk. And, as the hours had passed, she had grown more and more worried. She’d felt almost shut out. On Saturday, Justin and Mike had gone into the market together, then stopped to play darts with Barney Canail and Old Doug along the way. All three of them had had dinner together, but Justin, in a brooding mood, had left early.

  By Sunday she had been furious with herself. Why had she confessed anything? She knew that she was in love with Justin, and he said that he was in love with her. But it was so hard to really know. There was something as elementally pagan and wild about the man as about the land. Over eight long years she hadn’t been able to forget him. And she hadn’t been able to see him again without feeling the same overpowering need to touch him again. But could you build a future on that?

  And what was he planning to do about Mike?

  Her palms began to sweat. Was he going to say something to Mike? Surely he wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t do anything to take him away or press his point…or would he?