Briarwood Cottage (12 page)

Having experienced the loss of a child from the father’s perspective, Duncan now wondered if perhaps his father’s pain had been the reason he’d grown increasing colder. Why he’d distanced himself even further from his wife and son.

Whatever the reason, his mother had been left to deal with her loss on her own. Which was when she’d found comfort in alcohol.

“That was what she was going to tell me, wasn’t it?” Cassandra asked quietly, showing that her reporter skills of listening to what
wasn’t
said were still as strong as ever.

“Yeah. Probably.” He sighed heavily even as he could hear the joyful sounds of a reel being played out in the main part of the pub. “Since I could tell she’d been drinking and I wasn’t sure how the call was going to turn out, I decided it wasn’t the way you needed to hear the story.”

“She wanted to let me know I wasn’t alone.” Duncan could tell that Cass was surprised by that.

“Yeah.”

“So, she turned to alcohol to ease the pain. And got stuck in her own sad limbo.”

“That’s one way of putting it. And I blame myself for not knowing how to fix her.”

“You were young,” she repeated. “Besides, I’ve already learned that no one can fix anyone. We all have to fix ourselves.” She ran a fingernail around the rim of the glass Patrick had poured her ale into. “But I was more fortunate than most. Because I had you. And Sedona.”

“Yeah, I proved a helluva lot of help,” he ground out, deciding that banging his head onto the scarred wooden table wouldn’t exactly add anything to this long-overdue discussion. I want you to know that, as soon as the words about having another child came out of my mouth, I realized that I’d sounded unbelievably insensitive. At the time I was so totally numb—”

“You were?” He could tell that was the biggest surprise of the night.

“As a stone.”

“But you took care of making the travel arrangements out of Egypt, you booked the flights, you made the doctor appointments, you cooked. You did
everything
.”

“If there’s one thing going days or weeks without sleep has taught me, it’s how to operate on autopilot.” He dragged his hands down his face. Sighed heavily. “Which I was pretty much doing back then. But I did know I’d screwed up when I heard those words, which were meant to encourage both of us, coming out of my damn idiot mouth.”

Cassandra belatedly realized that he’d been trying to convince not just her but
himself
that life could go on. That someday they’d be, maybe not entirely normal, but their version of it, again.

She’d watched Ducan with refugees fleeing both war zones and natural disasters, wounded children in makeshift shelters, women who’d been held captive by terrorists, and so many other unspeakable human casualties born of a dangerous world. Even as he’d never fail to get the story he’d come to tell, he’d also be so gentle. So caring.

As he’d been with her.

If she’d only been thinking clearly, Cass would have realized what he’d been trying to say. Instead, even as she’d begun to recover, as recently as two days ago, that one ill-timed comment had continued to ache like a sore tooth.

This time it was Cassandra who reached out to take
his
hand. “You were trying to give us both hope.”

As was his nature. She’d often wondered how such a warm man had come from that seemingly icy family. Having heard the damage Angela McCaragh’s miscarriage had caused to his family, she now decided that he’d either inherited or learned his kindness and sensitivity from his mother.

“I was searching for some glimmer of hope,” he admitted as his thumb traced little circles on the sensitive skin of her palm. “Which turned out to be a major fail.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Nor yours.”

And wasn’t that what Sedona and Dr. Fletcher had been telling her? And although Cassandra had wanted to believe them, a very strong part of her had been clinging to that dark guilt she’d wrapped around herself like a shroud.

“Okay.” She exhaled a long breath. “We’ve talked enough about sad things for one night,” she decided. “We’re here in the most beautiful spot on earth, there’s great food, music playing, and people dancing, so why don’t we put those days aside for now and enjoy our evening?”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “Deal.”

I
f it was
true that the traditional music of a country reflected the songs the people all carried in their hearts, Cassandra decided that the music being played in Brennan’s reflected the Irish landscape. As the informal gathering of fiddlers, flutists, drummers, whistlers, and guitar and concertina players entertained, she could picture dizzyingly tall cliffs looking out over the Atlantic toward America; wild winter surf; rolling green fields separated by stone fences where sheep and cattle grazed; the busy harbor where fishermen arrived from the sea to deliver their catch to the restaurants and fish mongers; the reed-fringed Lough Caislean with its castle ruins, along with whitewashed cottages and brightly painted buildings that offered such a cheery contrast to the gray of the sea and sky. It was all there, in the music and lyrics—the kings and castles, battles and banishments, the magic and miracles.

They’d finished their dinner, and lured by the evocative music, she was sitting on a stool against a far wall, Duncan beside her, when a man who appeared to be even older than Elizabeth Murphy came dancing over to her, took hold of her hand, and, although he appeared to be nearly a foot shorter than her own five foot four and may have possibly weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, he nevertheless proved strong enough to pull her off the wooden stool.

“Come dance with me, darlin’,” he said.

“I don’t know the steps.” As opposed to the others, who looked as if they’d been performing those steps since childhood.

“Ah, now, it’s not about the order you get the steps in,” he assured her. “All you do is do what your heart tells you, and we’ll be turning you into a pro jigger in no time at all.”

As he proceeded to drag her across the floor, she glanced back at Duncan, who was off his own stool and headed her way. When she shook her head to let him know his protection wasn’t necessary, he lifted a dark brow, then shrugged and stood there, arms crossed, watching as she and her partner twirled and skipped around like mad fools while the others laughed and applauded their encouragement.

“My name is Fergus,” he told her as he spun her out, then pulled her back again without missing a beat. “And you’d be Cassandra. Wife of the famous television journalist, Duncan McCaragh.”

“Duncan is my husband,” she confirmed as he spun her in a tight series of dizzying circles.

“He seems like a fine man. For a Scotsman.”

“A Scotsman who’d like to dance with his wife,” Duncan’s deep voice said behind her.

“And aren’t you a fortunate fellow,” Fergus said, handing her over as if she had no say in the matter.

“And don’t I know it,” Duncan agreed. As he took Cassandra into his arms, the music changed from an energetic reel to a lyrical air that reminded her of the walk she’d taken earlier, where the cemetery and the cairn had invited her to slow down and breathe.

“You both behaved as if I were a horse being sold at Sunday market,” she complained without heat.

“And should I not have agreed that I’m fortunate to have such a winsome wife?” he asked on an exaggerated brogue that had her fighting back a laugh. “And believe me, darling, I’m well aware that you’re no horse but a very hot female.”

She shook her head as she twined her arms around his neck. “If I were keeping score, I’d feel the need to point out that’s getting close to a move.”

“No.” As he turned her in a slow circle, he pulled her closer against his still very fine, hard body. “Now this,” he murmured as he bent his head and nibbled on her earlobe, which only he had ever discovered possessed a direct connection to her nipples, “is a move.”

He’d always been an excellent dancer, in part because of the lessons he’d told her he’d been forced to take as part of his boyhood etiquette instruction. He turned her beneath his raised arm with an easy male grace, then pulled her back in, fitting her even tighter against him than before.

His smooth-moving feet weren’t the only thing in motion, she realized as those metal buttons pressed against her, causing too-long neglected parts of her body to do a happy dance of their own.

They’d danced for their first and, until tonight, last time together on the beach after their wedding. The resort staff had returned to work, the minister had left for wherever the concierge had found her, and the vacationers who’d been baking their bodies in the sun while drinking mai tais all day must have gone inside to party in one of the many bars.

They’d been all alone, swaying together barefoot in the sand, Duncan humming Adele’s “Make You Feel My Love” while a huge white moon floated overhead. At the time, when he’d requested the song, Cassandra had considered it an easy choice given that it had been one of the most popular wedding songs of the year.

But now, looking back on it, he’d been echoing the vows he’d written on the flight to the island. The ones he’d reminded her of earlier today. Had it only been one day? Like the lyrics said, the winds of change were definitely blowing wild and free.

She leaned her head back to look up at him. “You chose that song on purpose, didn’t you?”

He didn’t pretend to believe that she might be talking about how the musicians had segued from “The South Wind” to the even more haunting “She Moved Through the Fair.”

“I did. Because I meant those words then and I meant them this morning. There is
nothing
I wouldn’t do to make you feel my love.”

The fierce heat in his eyes and rumbled baritone that strummed at least a gazillion strings had Cassandra almost dissolving into a puddle of need right on the dance floor. How was it that just days ago, she’d considered going to dinner with Sedona and her friends a major achievement? But now, here on this very public dance floor, she was on the verge of tearing off her husband’s clothes and climbing up his body right here in Brennan’s in front of nearly the entire population of Castlelough.

Before Egypt she’d never been able to resist this man.

After Egypt just the sight of Duncan struggling to make things right had caused her heart to ache even worse than when she’d learned about their baby.

Now, even as she tried to tell herself that it was only sexual chemistry intensified by months of celibacy, Cassandra knew what was happening between them was much, much more.

“Ah,” she tried for humor as she barely resisted biting that square jaw that had been chiseled by more than his fair share of testosterone, “is
that
what I’m feeling?”

“Like most guys, the good Lord only gave me enough blood for my head or my penis,” he growled into her ear, not that anyone could hear them now that the musicians had moved on to a lively jig even as she and Duncan continued to sway in place, surrounded by energetic Riverdance wannabes. “Which means that any doctor in the country would probably declare me brain-dead right now.”

He’d always been able to make her laugh.

Until he hadn’t.

But then, miracle of miracles, he did again.

“Well then,” she said, giving into impulse and going up on her toes to nip that sexily stubbled jaw, “I suppose we’d best get you home.”

He went as still as one of those ancient Celtic stones surrounding the cairn as he gave her a long, speculative look. “Are you saying—”

“Brain death is not to be taken lightly.” It had been so long since she’d flirted. Too long. Cassandra had forgotten the fun in tongue-tying a strong, confident alpha male. “We could call the local doctor. Or…”

She skimmed her index finger down the front of his shirt, pausing to toy with his belt buckle. “We could go back to the cottage, put you to bed, and try some old-fashioned home remedies.”

He covered her hand with his. “I vote for number two.”

She felt those unused muscles beside her mouth stretch as she smiled again. “Good choice.”

Arms wrapped around each other, they stumbled across the street to the parking space like two drunks holding each other up. Which, except for the drunk part, was mostly true.

The rental beeped as he unlocked it with the remote, then, with a broad palm cupping her butt, he boosted her into the high passenger seat. Her girly parts had given up their happy dance and were now shouting at her to satisfy them. Had it not been for the streetlight shining into the SUV, she might have actually seriously considered doing exactly that here and now.

After settling into the driver’s seat and starting the engine, before shifting into reverse, he turned toward her. “I don’t suppose you happen to have brought along one of those tight nurse outfits with the lace garter belts, white, lace-topped stockings, and do-me-big-boy stilettos?”

“Sorry. Frederick’s of Hollywood hasn’t reached Shelter Bay yet.”

He shrugged. “No problem. You’ve always been hot to me whatever you’re wearing.” He waggled wicked brows. “Or not wearing.”

“This is crazy,” she said breathlessly.

“Insane,” he agreed. “The plan was to get our marriage situation worked out before we moved on to screwing each other’s brains out.”

And didn’t that suggestion cause vital body parts to spike? But…

“You actually had this all planned out?”

“I’m a Marine,” he reminded her. “We always have a plan.”

Which put him miles ahead of her. Cassandra hadn’t even come up with what to say when he’d opened the door.

She could have felt manipulated. But instead, as they drove away from the lights of the village, headed back toward Briarwood Cottage, she said, “Sometimes, going off plan can turn out to be a good thing.”

“Oorah,” Duncan agreed.

A
s they pulled
up in front of the cottage, the lights in the window gleaming a warm welcome, Duncan turned toward Cassandra.

“Are you sure about this?”

There might be many things she didn’t have a handle on, but about this, Cassandra was absolutely, one-hundred-and-a-gazillion percent positive. “Absolutely.”