Deirdre's True Desire

by Heather McCorkle

  “Kinan, these are stunning, so exotic, so…” Her voice trailed off as she moved to touch the next one. When she finally spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “So stimulating.”

  Both the fact that she had called him by his first name, and her reaction, sent a shiver through him that went straight to his groin. As his cock jumped to attention, he found himself in need of a distraction that would allow him to turn away. “Thank you. I’m touched that you think so. These tapestries have deep meaning for me,” he said. The last part had been a mistake. He wasn’t ready for her to ask about that.

  He walked to the open fireplace that took up a fair amount of one wall and checked the woodbox beside it. Thankfully, it was empty, giving him the excuse he needed. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward the leather couch sitting before the fireplace and the chair seated in a corner by the full bookshelf. “I’ll only be a moment. I’m going to care for the horses and fetch some firewood.”

  She nodded and moved on to the next tapestry.

  He dashed from the cottage, closing the door behind him. Cool, moist air swirled around him, drawing the heat from his skin and helping him drive down his desire to a manageable level. By the time he had unsaddled the horses, secured the poles in place that enclosed the covered area, and given them enough grain to keep them occupied for a while, he had a firm grasp on his manners. As much as he wanted to profess his interest in her, he didn’t dare do it now. Not only was he hesitant because of her distant manner of late, but here, alone, couldn’t be a more inappropriate time and place. It might make her feel vulnerable, or worse, fearful. As a high-society lady, she would expect him to be a gentleman, and he would not let her down.

  Gathering as much firewood as he could in one arm, he went back inside. Deirdre stood at the bookcase, her back to him. The scent of wet wool drew his gaze to where her damp cloak hung on a hook next to the door. But he couldn’t look away from her for long, no matter how he tried. Long, wet strands of dark hair curled their way over her shoulder and down her back. Where the locks touched her lovely purple dress, the satin shone a hue almost as dark as her hair. Bumps from the chilly air and damp freckled across her exposed arms. Engrossed in the books as she was, she didn’t seem to notice her body was trying to tell her it was cold.

  The books, oh dear saints, the books! What if she came across the one he kept hidden on the bottom shelf behind the vase?

  Her fingers stroked the binding of one of the many books on the shelf. He tried to tell his thundering heart not to worry, that it was the wrong shelf. She pulled it out and opened it. Even from this distance Kinan could see it and knew which book it was. Chills of dread splashed across him. Not the one he had feared, but still one that might disturb her. The picture on the page she studied depicted a Mayan sun god, smiling, tongue thrust out. At the sound of his steps, Deirdre turned. The look of wonder on her face stopped him in his tracks. She smiled, the look transforming her into the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Forcing himself to look away, he carried the firewood to the fireplace and began to pile it inside.

  “This book, these images, they are stunning, Kinan,” she said.

  A flush of relief and pride went through him that banished the chill from outside. “You really think so?” he asked. It wasn’t that he doubted the sincerity in her voice, just that most people thought such exotic images and books were savage and below the notice of polite society. Rather than look to her to see the response he so desperately wanted, he focused hard on piling the kindling just right.

  “Aye, very much so. Wherever did you get them?” she asked.

  This time fear took the edge off his pride. He didn’t want to reveal too much of his history, his family, to her just yet. But he would not lie to her. “My mother gave them to me.” On one hand, he wanted to say more to see how she would respond, on the other, he was terrified of her response.

  “The subject matter, is it related to the tapestries?”

  After a few good strikes of flint and steel, he had to blow on the sparks. She put the book back and continued to peruse the shelves, patient for his response. Once flames licked at the wood, he joined her at the shelves.

  Standing as close to her as he dared, he said, “It is.”

  “Is this Mexican culture?” she asked.

  “Close. It’s Mayan, which is a culture that existed in Mexico centuries ago,” he said.

  “From the look of it, they were a culture of artists,” she mused as her fingers brushed another book.

  Standing close as he was, Kinan saw that she was shivering ever so slightly. He left her to her perusing and headed for the bedroom. If he tried to draw her attention away from the books, he risked raising her suspicion. Besides, she was looking at the top shelves, so he was safe. On the way, he paused at the fireplace long enough to hang a teapot over it. From the small bedroom, he fetched a heavy quilt. Before leaving, he glanced around the room. With its four-poster log bed, small dresser of the same make, and petite window of thick, cloudy glass, it wasn’t exactly luxurious. But it was immaculate, and he hoped if they had to stay the night, Deirdre would find it adequate. At least it would be out of the weather. Etiquette dictated he should close the door, for the sight of the bed was suggestive—but he didn’t dare. The heat from the fireplace needed to be able to reach this room. He’d rather take the risk of her thinking him inappropriate than have the room be chilly if she needed it later.

  Her chin lifted in his direction as his steps echoed on the wood floor, but she didn’t look away from the shelf. No, it was not the shelf that held her attention any longer, he realized. Now she stroked the very wall itself. To let her know he approached, he made his steps a touch heavier. For a moment, he held the quilt behind her, waiting. Despite her shivering, she remained too engrossed in the wall to notice the blanket he offered. He held his breath and draped the quilt around her shoulders. She sighed and leaned back into it—and him. He knew he should step back, he tried to, but he couldn’t.

  Going after what he wanted—fighting for it—were strong drives in his nature, so strong they often tried to override the sense of propriety his parents had worked so hard to instill in him. Not that he would be so forward as to do anything Deirdre didn’t want—no, never that. He wasn’t that kind of man. But in his experience, a woman would change her mind about what she wanted when society deemed it inappropriate.

  He had mustered the will to step back when she reached up and touched his hand where it still clutched the quilt. The skin-to-skin contact set him on fire. Touching a lady in such a manner was entirely unacceptable, unless one was courting her, or married to her, of course. While her palm was soft against the back of his hand, her fingers felt a touch rough, like they might have calluses. Curiosity got the better of him and he leaned over her shoulder to look. His groin inadvertently brushed her buttocks, sending that fire straight down. When she didn’t pull away from the contact, he held his breath and dug deep for his will.

  It was nowhere to be found. Closing his eyes, he froze. After along moment in which his heart doubled its speed, she leaned back against him. Those firm buttocks pressed against his groin. His cock swelled, stretching the buttons of his breeches. Still she didn’t move away or let go of his hand. She had to have felt it.

  “You’re an interesting man, Kinan, and quite fetching,” she all but purred in a breathy voice. The familiarity with which she addressed him felt almost as intimate as her touch. Almost.

  But her distant manner of late confused him. He had thought she’d lost interest in him. Her head turned, tilting back to look up at him.

  “And you’re an intriguing woman who is as beautiful as a summer sunset on the San Francisco coast.”

  Her eyes fluttered and her full lips arched into a smile. Those lips looked so inviting that he started to lean down to her. Her eyes slid closed as she tilted her head back a little more, just enough
to be at the right angle. Need began to override reason. From the moment he first saw her, he had wanted to kiss her. That desire had only grown stronger with each little thing he learned about her. He slid his arms around her waist, reveling in the feel of her satin dress against his rough fingers. No doubt her skin would be just as smooth, and he wanted to touch every inch of it. That brought him back to himself and stopped him when less than an inch remained between their lips.

  That wild nature his father warned him about was trying to get the best of him. This was too close to what happened last time he’d been interested in a woman. Deirdre was different, the pull he felt toward her stronger than anything he’d ever felt. He couldn’t lose her because of his failure to be a proper gentleman. He wouldn’t.

  Besides, his actions weren’t fair to Deirdre. Even if she felt the same spark between them, she barely knew him. She deserved to know him better first.

  “My deepest apologies, Mrs. Quinn. I didn’t mean to disrespect or dishonor you by acting inappropriately. Please rest assured, it won’t happen again,” he promised, hoping he sounded as sincere as he felt.

  Deirdre blinked long and slow. Letting out a breath, she straightened and pulled the blanket tighter around her. Anger darkened her eyes, but whether it was anger over him taking advantage in the first place, or withdrawing, he wasn’t sure. No, he couldn’t let himself think that way, couldn’t let himself hope for that. Deirdre’s right brow twitched up and down. He found it adorable, and that only made him want to kiss her more.

  “Socially inappropriate, aye,” she said in a huff, eyes cast to the floor.

  She drew in a deep breath—which made her breasts swell in a way that tried to lure him in—and met his gaze. Thankfully, he had looked up in time to avoid being caught leering.

  “You have no need to apologize, Mr. O’Leary.”

  She removed a book from the shelf, walked over to the couch before the fire, and sat. Firelight lit her face in an orange, flickering glow as she opened the book and started to read. It was one of his many books on astronomy. The teapot over the fireplace began to whistle, saving him from the awkward silence, and giving him something to do with his pent-up energy. He took it to the small counter that served as the cottage’s kitchen and fetched two ceramic cups from the single cupboard above it. The aromas of mint and rosehips wafted up to him as he opened the container holding the loose tea. He scooped a generous heap of the leafy mixture into a metal basket infuser shaped like an egg, and dropped it into his cup.

  “How would you like your tea?” he asked.

  Without looking up from the book, she answered, “Strong and sweet, if you have sugar, that is.” She sounded distracted.

  He smiled. Strong and sweet, just like her. The way she interacted with her friends, treating them with such kindness, and holding Sadie as an equal, spoke of a very sweet, giving soul. If only he could stop mucking things up with her. She was a conundrum of contradictions that he just couldn’t decipher. Teacups in hand, he returned to the couch and set her cup on the table by the arm of the sofa that she had curled up around. She was several pages deep into the book, her finger slowly trailing down the page. Rather than be so bold as to sit on the sofa beside her (like he wanted to do), he stood in front of the fireplace.

  “Do you have an interest in astronomy?” he asked.

  At last she looked up. The beautiful smirk on her face moved him on a level so deep that it stole his breath. “Very much so, despite my mother insisting that academic pursuit isn’t at all ladylike. To think, there are not only other planets, but galaxies! ’Tis fascinating to know the universe is such a massive place, so much bigger than it seems.”

  Her enthusiasm sparked his own passion for the subject. They immediately engaged in deep conversation about the 1846 discovery of Neptune by astronomers Johann Gottfried Galle, Urbain Le Verrier, and John Couch Adams. Deirdre impressed him by arguing that Galileo Galilei had actually been the one to discover it inadvertently, while sketching its moons long before. Two cups of tea and half the book later found them seated together on the couch, bent over the pages head to head. They talked long into the night. Never had Kinan found a woman so knowledgeable, so interested in such things. It thrilled him to no end.

  Only when Deirdre nodded off did they finally stop. Looking at her all curled up on the couch, Kinan couldn’t very well leave her there. The poor thing would have a terrible kink in her neck when she awoke if he didn’t move her.

  “Mrs. Quinn,” he called softly as he leaned closer. “Deirdre,” he said a little louder.

  She groaned, but didn’t stir. Carefully, he lifted the book from her limp hands and returned it to the shelf. By the time he returned, she had nestled deeper into the couch. Slow breaths made her bosom rise and fall, pushing her cleavage together in a tantalizing manner. Her skirts had hiked up enough that he could see the frilly lace of her pantaloons above the creamy white skin of one ankle. Hot blood pumped down to his groin. Closing his eyes, he shook his head, trying to rid it of such lecherous thoughts. Tonight had revealed many things about Deirdre Quinn to him. The foremost was that she was much more than just another beautiful woman. And temptation be damned, for he would treat her with the respect she deserved. As much as he wanted to kiss her and claim her as his own, he would not. He would do his best to win her heart without appealing to her mutual attraction for him.

  He touched her arm, careful to do so where her sleeve covered her skin. “Deirdre, you would be more comfortable in the bed,” he said.

  “Hmm… The bed, yes…” she murmured through a smile. The sleepy, sultry tone of her voice made him think of all the more interesting things one could do in a bed. He forced such thoughts down as deep as he could, and imagined locking them away.

  Left with few other options, he bent and scooped her into his arms. She stirred only enough to turn in against him and snuggle closer. Curls framed a flawless face smooth with the relaxation of sleep. Long lashes brushed cheeks several shades darker than was typical for an Irish lass. But then, she had just spent months out in the sun and weather traveling across America. Not that her olive-toned skin mattered to him. He carried her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed. Her hands pulled slowly, almost reluctantly—or so he hoped—from his sleeve. Eyes fluttering beneath her lids, she sighed and nuzzled into the feather pillow.

  To his relief, she had removed her boots while they’d been talking earlier in the evening. If he’d had to remove them, it might have put him out of his mind. The thought of removing any piece of clothing from her… He tucked the quilt around her and fetched a second from the trunk at the foot of the bed. At the door, he hesitated, unable to turn away. The sight of her on that bed, black curls splayed out across the pillow, inspired him in more ways than one. How a woman that he had only known for a few days could have such a profound effect on him, he didn’t know. What he did know, was that he would do his best to give Dylan O’Toole a run for his coin for the chance to court her.

  Chapter 10

  From within the shawl wrapped about her head, Deirdre sneaked glances at Kinan as they rode through the chilly morning air. The horses’ hooves crunched through the dusting of white crystallized flakes that had covered the ground while they slept. Last night’s interaction left her more confused than ever. Kinan’s insistence on being proper deepened her fear of high-society men being boring and old-fashioned, all but proving the theory. But then he had been so damned interesting. Never had a man spoken to her so candidly, engaging her in deep conversation as if she were his equal in intellect. The more she got to know him, the harder it became to remain uninterested. If only he had kissed her…

  “This little bit of snow probably looks quaint to a New Yorker like yourself,” Kinan’s deep voice resonated in the stillness.

  She shrugged and finally allowed herself to look at him. Black hair brushed unshaven cheeks ruddy from the cold, giving him a rugged look that ma
de the muscles between her legs tighten. Even packed in layers covered by a woolen cloak, the man’s muscular frame enticed her, which was precisely why she’d been avoiding looking at him. She refused to become romantically interested in a man who she couldn’t confirm she resonated with sexually. Life was too short to have dull carnal relations again. Besides, she theorized it was a sign of a man who would cling so tight to proper ways that he would repress her. But could a man with a voice that could make her wet and a silhouette that set her afire really be a bad lover?

  Worse, possibly, he could condemn her for her secret. Revealing such a thing would put her at the utmost vulnerability. The fear of him telling others, of him condemning her, made her chest tighten until she could barely breathe. She liked him far too much to face such rejection from him. Dammit, when had she let herself become so attached? But he was interested in other cultures. Perhaps…

  Bloody hell, he had asked her something! What had it been? New York…snow…yes! “A bit quaint, but unexpected,” she said. The high clouds in the sky meant it was unlikely that any more would fall. That made her feel a bit nostalgic. “Is it silly that I wish for more?”

  The smile he gave her warmed her much more than her cloak did. “Not at all, what with the holiday approaching. You must be used to a snowy Christmas,” he said.

  Memories of horse-drawn sleighs plodding through snowy streets filled her mind, making her smile. “Oh, yes, most certainly.”

  “Well, we don’t get it often here, but up in the hills where we get our Christmas tree, it is always snowy. Which reminds me; the inn usually gets its Christmas tree the first Sunday in December. Before we get it this year, however, I wanted to make sure it was a custom that you embraced,” he said.

  It made her sad that he had to ask, but she understood. Many felt it a pagan tradition, even though the Catholic church had embraced it. His openness and respect for other beliefs encouraged her. “O’ course I do, Kinan. But that is very sweet of you to ask.”