Kiss My Blarney Stone: War Games (Part 1 of a 3 Part Serial)

by Mimi Riser

  Chapter 4

  “Well, hello there.” Warily, Sharon surveyed the large brass doorknocker. Silently, it stared back at her through mischievous slanted eyes. “You look like you were patterned after an ancient Greek theatrical mask.” Comedy. Didn’t that just figure.

  Black comedy.

  She hugged herself, feeling chilled. The towering dark structure before her seemed almost forbidding in the fast-waning light, its myriads of frolicking sprites suddenly appearing more like demons and hobgoblins, as icy fingers of night air plucked at her hair and clothes. But chilly and uneasy as it felt outside, she still had neither the nerve nor the inclination yet to tackle the unknown quantities that lay beyond Ramhaillim’s broad door.

  Besides, she and the knocker were having such a nice chat. A little one-sided perhaps, but that had never stopped her before.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked it, taking heart from its big brassy grin. “I’m Sharon. I own this house now—well, half of it anyway. Do you mind? You won’t be the only one if you do. Why do you suppose Aunt Deirdre left it to me? You remember her, don’t you—Deirdre Kelly Egan? She was my grandmother’s sister.”

  Was it her imagination, or did the knocker’s eyes narrow a smidgen with a hint of hidden merriment?

  “Good God, Rory was right; I am crazy.” She gave herself a brisk shake. “What am I doing out here in the cold talking to a doorknocker?”

  “You wouldn’t be crazy unless the knocker talks back. I warn you though, it might.”

  Who said that?

  Sharon almost jumped out of her shoes. The voice had come from the door, which meant…either the knocker was talking, or—

  The door swung open, and a wizened little old man glowered at her.

  “Who do y’want?” he cackled sharply.

  “I…I don’t want anyone.” Except a doctor maybe, because she’d nearly had a heart attack just now.

  “Well then, what do y’want?” He glared harder.

  You had to admire his righteous resolve. He was shorter than she, and near ninety, at least, but had planted himself fiercely in the doorway, guarding it as if she were a marauding band of cutthroat thieves.

  “I’m Sharon O’Shaughnessy. I’m the new co-owner this house.”

  “A likely story.” He snorted disdainfully. “I knew a Danny O’Shaughnessy once—he still owes me two pounds, too—but I’ve never known a Sharon O’Shaughnessy. Go on, be off with ya!” He started to shut the door in her face.

  A fast grab halted its creaking swing just in time. “No, wait. I’m Danny O’Shaughnessy’s granddaughter.”

  “Sure and I’m King Brien o’ the Leprechauns.”

  Sharon could almost believe that.

  “Honest, I’m telling the truth.” She gave him the smile she reserved for state troopers who pulled her over for speeding (very few had ever written her a ticket).

  “Danny’s granddaughter, eh?” The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked her up and down. “Then where’s me two pounds he owes me?”

  “Uncle Padraic?” called a lilting feminine voice from somewhere inside. “What mischief is it you’re stirring up now?”

  The old man frowned and started muttering to himself in Gaelic.

  “Uncle Padraic!” the call sounded again.

  Sharon peeked around the doorframe just as the owner of the voice came into view—a matronly woman with gray hair and the proud carriage of a queen. She wore traditional garb, a knee length, full red skirt and top with a plaid shawl crisscrossed over her chest and tied at the back. Descending on Padraic, she read him the riot act in Gaelic, then shooed him off. He shuffled out of the room, still frowning, still muttering.

  Sharon made a mental note to give him his two pounds the next time she saw him. While she hesitated on the doorstep, she felt a pair of eyes on her, and glanced up to see the woman regarding her with a steady and amused look.

  “Come in, child, and shut the door. Whatever would you be doin’ standing outside in the cold?” She took Sharon by the arm and let her into the large, dimly lit entrance hall. “I’m Maurya Connolly, the housekeeper. And you must be Sharon. We expected you over an hour ago. Was your plane delayed?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, it’s no great matter—you’re here now. Come along, dear, and I’ll fix you a nice tea to chase the chill from your bones.”

  Chatting amiably and nonstop, she guided Sharon through several darkened rooms until they reached a bright cheery kitchen at the back of the house. Sharon sat at a sturdy old wooden table while Maurya bustled about pouring tea and setting a daunting display of food on the table.

  “I’ll never have it said anyone leaves this kitchen hungry,” Maurya declared as she worked. “You mustn’t pay any mind to me Uncle Padraic. He’s become a bit quair in his ways—old age, don’t you know—but he’s harmless. And it’s still a fine hand he has with the horses.”

  “Horses?” Sharon froze. Maurya had just said the magic word. “Whose horses?”

  “Rory’s, dear. He’s a breeder and trainer, he is. Did you not know he had a horse farm here? It was Deirdre’s business originally, but she gave it to Rory for his twenty-first birthday. Felt she was getting too old for it, she did. She kept possession of the house but signed over the stable and the stock to him.”

  Sharon choked on a bite of soda bread, thinking of opportunities recently lost and wondering if a “bitch” might be allowed to at least look at the stable. God, she loved horses—you couldn’t be Kathleen’s granddaughter and not.

  Maurya patted her on the back. “Mercy, what a cough. I do hope you haven’t caught a chill. Maybe you should go to bed.”

  Maybe she should. With Rory? Bad move! Damn him, why hadn’t he told her he was a horseman? Worse yet, why hadn’t she given him a chance to?

  “No, no…I’m okay,” Sharon rasped. She took a few sips of tea. That helped. “I just swallowed wrong, that’s all.” She punctuated the assurance with a smile.

  Maurya smiled back, affection glowing in her gaze. “Bless you child, but you do favor your great-aunt, God rest her. It’s plain to see you’ve Kelly blood in your veins. Rory now, that rascal takes after his grandfather Johnny, so tall and dark he is. And willful and headstrong, too. Though I daresay you’ve already discovered that for yourself.” She laughed.

  Sharon almost choked again, but staved it off with another swallow of tea.

  “Sure and that Rory Egan can be as stubborn as a donkey,” Maurya continued blithely. “He’s nearly been the death of me more that once with his roguish ways. Ah, but you should’ve known him as a wee boy, so bright and full of life he was, and forever causing mischief.” She shook her head, chuckling in fond remembrance. “He’s always been the darlin’ of this house… Are you certain you feel all right, child? You look a bit feverish.”

  Only a bit? Sharon resisted the urge to fan herself. It seemed she couldn’t even listen to talk about Rory without her temperature spiking. Especially now that she knew his profession. Sigh. Such glorious creatures, horses. Of course, donkeys could be kinda cute, too…

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she answered Maurya.

  “If you say so, dear. Here, have some more tea.” The woman poured her another cup.

  “Where’s Rory now?” Sharon asked. Casually.

  “Out with his precious horses, where else. Convinced he is they can’t survive a single blessed day without his personal attention. That man!”

  “And what man is this, me darlin’ Maurya?” Rory strode into the kitchen, ignoring Sharon, and swept the startled housekeeper up in his arms. “Tell me!” he roared with fake ferociousness. “If I’ve lost you to another man, I’ll throttle the blackguard to within an inch of his miserable woman-thieving life!”

  “And I hope you do, Rory Egan. You deserve a good thrashing.” Maurya smirked. “It’s yourself I was speaking of, you wicked scoundrel. Now put me down!”

  “Not until you promise to marry me.” He tightened his grip on her.


  “A plague on you, you villain. Didn’t I already promise that the first time you proposed, and you a mere babe of five at the time?”

  “So you did.” Rory swung her down to her feet. “And I mean to hold you to it. Now how about a nice big pog for your intended?” He grabbed her about the waist, making as if he would kiss her.

  “You’re hopeless!” Maurya shoved him away. “Sit down and have your tea—and see that you mind your manners. That poor dear’s too wearied and spent to deal with your shenanigans this evenin’.” She turned to Sharon. “I’ll have one of the stable boys carry your bags in, then fetch Bridget Mary, my great-granddaughter, to help you unpack after you’ve eaten. Take your time now. Rory will be pleased to show you the way to your room when you’re ready.”

  And then she was gone, leaving Sharon at one end of the table and Rory at the other.

  A silent minute stretched into several…then several more.

  Sharon sipped her tea.

  Rory ate a copious amount of food. He was clearly still aggravated with her, but it hadn’t hurt his appetite.

  Outside, banshee breezes howled around the house.

  Inside, an old clock on the wall went tick-tock, tick-tock…

  This was like watching a golf game on TV.

  Borrrring.

  Sharon finally couldn’t stand it anymore.

  She pushed away from the table and stood up, disgusted with herself that her knees wobbled. “Well, that was a great meal. Listen, you don’t have to come with me. Just point me in the right direction. I can find my own way. Really. I’m sure you have more important things to do. I don’t want to be a bother. Just tell me where my room is, okay, and I’ll take it from there…”

  She was babbling, and she knew it, but it couldn’t be helped. The circumstances were not conducive to making a dignified exit.

  Rory heaved a longsuffering sigh. “Oh, sit down. You’ve hardly touched your food. Maurya will be having my head on a platter if she thinks I chased you from it.”

  “But—”

  “Sit. Please. I won’t eat you,” he promised. “Not that I wouldn’t like to,” he added so softly Sharon wasn’t sure he’d actually said it.

  She quirked an eyebrow at him.

  A wry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Now you look like James Bond.”

  That started them both chuckling.

  What was happening here? Sharon felt like she’d walked into a movie theater midway through the film. What had she missed?

  “Rory”—she had to ask—“why are you being nice? Didn’t you say—”

  “I know what I said. I know what you said. I’m thinking maybe we both have Irish tempers and say things we don’t always mean. The big question is what do you think?”

  Hot damn.

  Sharon thought this was the perfect opportunity to broach a subject that she had previously assumed would be closed to her—and since there was no telling how long their current truce would last, she’d better make her request now while she could. Sometimes impatience is an asset. It enabled her to just blurt it out.

  “I want to help with your horses while I’m here, that’s what I think. How about it?”

  His brow furrowed with a worried frown. “Sharon, I raise Thoroughbreds—racehorses—not pleasure mounts.”

  Better and better. She could scarcely believe her luck.

  “Good. Because I don’t have much experience with hacks. On the other hand, I was raised by my racehorse trainer grandmother. As a kid, I practically lived in stables.”

  “Ah, that explains your manners.”

  “Rory dear, we’ve just discovered some wonderful common ground. Don’t screw it up.”

  He gave her a calculating look, as though trying to size up her abilities. “You ride, I suppose.”

  “Like a centaur. And I’m an ace stable hand, too. But you’ve already had proof of that.”

  “I have?”

  “Sure.” She beamed him a wicked grin. “If I can survive hours in a car with you and your blarney, you gotta know I’m an expert at shoveling shit.”

  Rory lost it, laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair.

  Sharon hoped that was a good sign.

  “All right, all right,” he finally said, “come out to the stable tomorrow morning, and we’ll see what we can find for you.”

  Yee-haw!

  “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Happy and not thinking, Sharon bolted around the table and knocked him flying with a tackle hug.

  He groaned at the impact.

  She didn’t notice. She was too busy being exuberant and grateful. Otherwise she might have seen the expression of sheer agony on Rory’s face as he struggled valiantly to hold fierce passions in check.

  None too gently, he disentangled himself from her and hauled them both to their feet, pushing her back from him a good long pace.

  “Yes, well, there’s no need to be so blathering about it, is there?” he said harshly.

  “No, of course not,” Sharon half whispered.

  She’d embarrassed him apparently, and embarrassed herself even more. It was a slap-in-the-face reminder that regardless of their mutual love for horses, they had no love, or even much liking, for each other, and they’d better stick to the “rules” from now on, lest someone get hurt. Like her maybe?