Mulligan Stew (16 page)

"I was about to send Maggie after you," Mum said as he took a seat. "It's not like one of me lads to be late for supper."

Bridget laughed and Riley's face flooded with heat. Mum often treated him like a wee lad, but Riley always took it in stride. Until now. He didn't want to be presented in a vulnerable way before Bridget. He wasn't a lad. He was a man.

He glanced across the table at her.
Bad idea, Mulligan.
She'd put up her hair, revealing a long column of throat he hadn't noticed earlier. A blue jumper he'd last seen on his sister stretched across Bridget's more substantial curves.

Aye, and despite her slimness, wasn't Bridget curvy in all the right places? The temperature in the room escalated—at least in his chair—and he tugged at his collar.

Her freshly scrubbed face glowed beneath the kitchen light, and he wondered if the warmth from the stove had put the bloom in her cheeks, or if she'd painted them. No, he decided. This woman needed no paint, and he knew, somehow, that she wore none.

As Mum began grace, Riley bowed his head, but he found himself peering at Bridget through his lashes. With her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted, she was exquisite. Breathtaking.

His sinful gaze dipped lower, watching her pulse throb at the base of her throat, just above the edge of her jumper. Lower still, her breasts thrust forward just above the table, almost as if she'd arranged herself that way to achieve the best effect.

Oh, and it had worked.

The outline of her nipples showed through the lightweight knit, confirming that she wore no padding to entice a man. She had the natural equipment in place to achieve that without artifice.

Aye, a dangerous temptress.

Then he caught sight of Maggie crossing herself and he followed suit, knowing he hadn't heard a word. Guilt sat heavily on his conscience, more for his lustful thoughts than for the missed prayer.

Disgraceful. That's you, Mulligan.

Men had needs, and it had been far too long since he'd indulged himself. Once he remedied that situation, he would be better able to deal with the likes of Bridget.

The huge bowl of chicken, gravy, and fluffy dumplings came to him and he ladled a generous serving onto his plate. Young Jacob was seated beside him again, and the large bowl would be too unwieldy for his small hands, so Riley served the lad as well.

Jacob beamed up at him, and Riley managed a grunt but couldn't prevent his lips from curving a bit, too. The lad had a way about him. There was nothing sly about Jacob—Riley glanced across the table at Bridget—unlike the lad's mother.

He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the food, knowing that Maggie couldn't have prepared the delectable feast. No, Bridget had prepared the meal. The thought of eating food prepared by her hands again annoyed him, but his hard work put food on their table in the first place, so he speared a fork full of dumpling dripping with gravy and popped it into his mouth.

An explosion of subtle flavors rewarded his effort, almost making him groan aloud. The dumplings were light as a feather and perfectly seasoned.

"Oh, Bridget Colleen," Mum said between bites. "I've never tasted better. Not even by me own hand. And you didn't use spuds in them, you say?"

"Thank you. Assuming spuds are potatoes, no. But I can next time if you want." Bridget's cheeks reddened and she looked down. She was more reserved now. The incident in Ballybronagh must have been a warning. She was obviously calculating her next move.

Riley would be ready for her. The next mistake she made, he would expose her as a fraud and be done with it.

Jacob brushed against his sleeve, reminding Riley of his presence. He glanced down at the lad who wriggled in his chair as he shoveled food into his mouth.

A tightening in Riley's chest reminded him of his earlier thoughts concerning Jacob's possible paternity. By exposing Bridget as a fraud, he would hurt Jacob. He was but a lad who
believed
his mother—even her lies. As any good child should.

No, Riley had to proceed with caution. Bridget confused him, but in many ways her son confused him even more. The lad touched Riley in ways that had nothing to do with hormones, and everything to do with the past. And family.

Realization punched him in the gut. His breath caught. He swallowed hard. Aye. In a way, Jacob had brought Culley home.

At least in Riley's heart...

* * *

Restlessness clawed at Bridget as she paced her room, glancing in at Jacob every few minutes to assure herself he still slept soundly. She hadn't even bothered to change into her nightgown yet, because every time she stopped moving even for a moment, the memory of Riley coming to their rescue in town exploded in her mind. Along with the realization that she hadn't thanked the man...

Granny had often said that guilt was life's best teacher. And—
dang it all
—the old woman had been right.

"Well, then I reckon I'll have to thank the man first thing in the morning." Resigned, she paused before the window and gazed out at the night. Silver moonlight beamed down on the earth and stars sparkled against the velvet sky. At least it had cleared and would rain no more tonight, but tomorrow could be another matter.

A huge yawn tugged at her mouth and she stretched. Now that she'd decided to thank Riley, she could get some sleep. She looked out the window again, mesmerized by the beauty of the dark landscape. It looked like something from a painting—too beautiful to be real.

Her gaze traveled across the meadow, knowing what she'd find.
Caisleán Dubh
marred the perfection of the night and Bridget's breath froze. She leaned closer to the glass, resting her forehead against its cool, smooth surface.

"That stupid castle can't hurt you," she whispered, her gaze riveted to the tower thrusting toward the night sky. Granny had always said the best way to get over a powerful fear was to face it head-on.

Bridget gulped.

Granny had been right about that, too.
Dang it.
Tomorrow, Bridget would march herself down to that castle and introduce herself. A smile curved her lips. All right, so introducing herself to a pile of rock was silly, but somehow it seemed right.

A woman with two big projects to face needed her sleep. Bridget pushed away from the glass just as her gaze fell on the figure standing in the meadow. He'd been there last night, and he was there again tonight. Standing. Staring.

Scaring the bejeezus out of her.

Her heart did a somersault and she shook herself. Instinct told her the man's identity, but that didn't prevent goosebumps from popping out all over her. She shivered and rubbed her upper arms, dispelling the sudden chill.

She drew a deep breath. Squared her shoulders.
You wanted to thank the man. Now's your chance.
He still stood there, but she realized now that his back was toward the house. Her gaze traveled beyond him to the castle, and a tremor slithered down her spine.

Gritting her teeth, Bridget rubbed her hands together and girded herself. Granny had always said Bridget had inherited more than her share of Frye stubbornness.

And now that Bridget had seen Riley Mulligan standing out there on a picture perfect night, nothing would do but for her to hightail herself out there to do what she should've done today. He'd come to her son's rescue right there in Gilhooley's. He could have turned away and left them there with only humiliation to show for themselves. Instead, he had treated Jacob the way an uncle should treat his brother's son.

Courage spurred by gratitude prodded Bridget's feet to move toward the door. She peered in at Jacob first. The covers were tugged to his chin and his inky lashes rested against his fair skin. Nearly black hair curled across his forehead, making Bridget's heart ache for the man who had been hers for such a short while.

Yes, she would thank Riley. She would do it for Culley—she smiled down at Jacob—and for their son. And to silence that nagging guilt the Frye women were so doggoned good at.

She tiptoed down the back staircase, knowing Fiona and Maggie were already in bed. The back door opened silently, and soon Bridget was making her way across the moonlit meadow toward the man who still stood staring at
Caisleán Dubh
.

The night was cool. She should've grabbed her sweater, but if she went back for it now, she might never find the guts to do what needed doing. It wouldn't take long. She lengthened her stride, moving through the night with silent determination.

Moonlight poured over Riley from beyond him, casting his profile in sharp relief. Dark against silver. He didn't move as she drew closer. He continued to stare at the castle as if his life depended on it.

Bridget paused just shy of her goal and looked at the castle again. Her breath caught and her heart launched into a lively reel. Something called to her. Beckoned her. She wanted to follow the powerful urge to obey the invisible force pulling at her.

She took a step toward it. The sinister darkness of it pulsed against the silver moonlight and the sea beyond. She took another step, battling the urge to run toward the massive stones surrounding the structure, but the sane part of her held her back, allowing her only small steps toward a strangely coveted goal.

Why did she want to touch something that terrified her? She shook her head, then leaned her head to the side, listening. A soft soughing sound reached her ears. It reminded her of the mountains of Tennessee, when the wind came through the trees. But there were no trees here. It almost seemed as if—

"You hear it, too." Riley's deep voice came through the darkness.

He was close. So very close. Bridget dragged her gaze from the castle to study his profile. As if shaped from some precious metal, he stood there. He didn't flinch or even appear to breathe as she watched him.

"What... what is it?" she asked, turning her gaze back to the castle. "Is it the sea?"

"No, not the sea." Riley released a long sigh. "As a lad, I couldn't hear it, but Culley could."

Bridget jerked her head around to Riley again. He was looking at her now. "Culley heard it? It almost sounds like... whispering."

"Aye, that's what he said." Riley's face was shadowed, hiding his expression, but his voice sounded sad. Lonely. "Da never heard it. Neither have Mum or Maggie."

"That's downright strange." Bridget's heart pounded louder and louder, seeming to beat in rhythm to the whispering sound. "But you couldn't hear it when you were little?"

Riley shook his head. "I..." He cleared his throat. "The first time I heard it was the same night we learned about Culley's accident."

Air rushed out of Bridget's lungs and she swayed. "Oh." A sudden wave of dizziness gripped her and she reached for the nearest means of support—Riley Mulligan's muscular forearm.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice quiet. Emotionless. "Or would this be part of your evil game?"

Bridget struggled between anger and confusion. "I'm
not
playing a game, and I am
not
evil." She drew a steadying breath and released his arm, acutely aware of the break in contact. Some kind of silent energy hummed around Riley all the time. She'd been aware of it the first moment she'd seen him, but here in the silence of the night, that invisible force came alive. That knowledge cooled her temper even as it fueled the strange but exasperating attraction she felt for the man.

The odd whispering grew louder, as did the inexplicable need to touch Riley again. Her hand trembled as she reached for his arm and rested the tips of her fingers against his sleeve. But that wasn't enough. She pressed harder, feeling his muscles flinch.

An image of herself wrapped in his embrace exploded in her mind and she gasped, looking up to meet his gaze through the darkness. If only she could see his eyes...

"You are a siren," he whispered, bringing the backs of his fingers to her cheek. "So beautiful. No wonder..."

She tried to speak, but no sound came from her lips. All she heard was the rich, deep rumble of Riley's voice, the soft whispering of
Caisleán Dubh
, and the steady song of her own blood as it whirred through her veins.

He gently stroked her cheek and took a step closer. Bridget's knees buckled and he reached out to steady her with his arm around her waist. The warmth of him stunned her, left her breathless and weak. What was happening to her?

His breath fanned her face, hot and enticing. She licked her lips, too aware of his arm around her waist and his face mere inches from hers to even breathe, let alone think.

Besides, a few moments ago, she'd imagined herself in his arms, and here she was. And she'd heard the same odd sound from
Caisleán Dubh
that Culley and Riley had heard. Why?

Thinking was dangerous sometimes.
Stop thinking.

She drew a steady breath and released it very slowly, feeling the beat of his heart against her shoulder. After a moment, she ventured a peek at him through her lashes. He'd turned his attention to the castle again, yet his grip about her waist tightened.

The strange whispers grew louder, drawing Bridget's gaze back to the tower. Voices from the past? Ghosts?

Hogwash.