Mulligan Stew (19 page)

"You are really something," she whispered, shaking her head. An invisible band tightened around her chest and she walked slowly toward the crumbled stones next to the doors.

The gap between the wood and the stones was wide enough for someone to slip through. She licked her parched lips as she drew nearer, reaching toward the castle wall with her trembling hand.

The whispering she'd heard last night beckoned to her again now. Her breath came in short bursts, and only one thought filled her mind:
Go inside. Go inside. Go inside.

She stumbled over a rock near the entrance, pitching forward toward the jagged stones that formed a border along the overgrown pathway. A shriek erupted from her just as a pair of strong arms gripped her about the waist and hauled her to safety.

All the air rushed out of her lungs as those same arms snapped her firmly against a solid wall of chest, then wrapped themselves around her waist from behind. "What the devil do you think you're doing?" Riley asked, his breath scorching the side of her neck.

Bridget tried to pull away, suddenly desperate to break free and to run headlong into the castle. She'd been so close. "Why did you stop me?" she asked, squirming and trying to jab him in the ribs with both elbows.

"Are you after getting yourself killed?" His voice sounded calmer now, though his breathing grew even more ragged. Hotter. "Are you so eager to leave your son an orphan then?"

"Jacob." A wave of weakness descended upon her like a cloak made of lead. "What am I doing here?" Then she remembered and closed her eyes. "I know. I remember."

"If I let you go, will you promise not to do anything foolish?"

"I promise I'll
try
not to." Bridget smiled to herself as he made a snorting sound, then gradually released his hold. She turned to face him, so close the warmth of him seeped through her clothing and into her bones. "Thank you for rescuing me again."

His eyes were hooded, his lips set in a stern line of disapproval. "What is your game?" he asked, gripping her upper arms in his strong hands. "One minute you're trying to seduce me, then the next you're trying to get yourself killed."

"Sed—" She sputtered for several seconds, his image blurring through the veil of rage that exploded from within her. "
Seduce
?" She tried to pull free, but he held her fast. "Fine, be a big old bully. Your momma will ask me about the bruises you're leaving on my arms."

His grip eased immediately and his expression softened. "I'm sorry." He sighed and shook his head. "I've never harmed a woman, and I don't intend to start now." He gave her a look that was more curious than anything. "Why do you go out of your way to irritate me?"

"I'd wager you were born irritated." Bridget put one fist on her hip, concentrating on this flesh and blood man before her, rather than on the persistent and perplexing lure of the castle behind.

A powerful sadness filled Riley's eyes and Bridget's heart. "What is it?" She took a step toward him.

He released a shaky breath and gazed out toward the ocean, and at something else she suspected only he could see. "It's nothing to concern you, and I'm sorry for being so rough."

Absently, she rubbed her upper arms. "You didn't hurt me. I'm tough peasant stock." She grinned when he half-smiled in her direction. "My grandpa told long tales about how his family fled Ireland during the Potato Famine, so I reckon that makes me
Irish
peasant stock."

"Bridget is an Irish name. A saint's name, be it fitting or not."

"I'm not a saint," she said quietly, "but I'm not bad either. Maybe someday you'll open the eyes God gave you and realize that."

He folded his arms in front of him and a muscle in his jaw clenched. His eyes appeared icy as they swept over her. "Irish peasant stock, I believe. I'm not so sure of the other."

"You'll believe what you want, I reckon." Riley Mulligan's opinion shouldn't matter to her, but it did.

"Aye, that I will." He sighed and dropped his hands to his sides. "What are you doing here, snooping around
Caisleán Dubh
?"

"I wouldn't call it snooping." She clenched her jaw, wishing she could ask him about the castle. Why did it call to her so? Now wasn't the time. She would try again, though.
Caisleán Dubh
wouldn't have it any other way.

And that assurance both terrified and tantalized her.

"No one enters
Caisleán Dubh
." His voice echoed off the castle wall.

"You Mulligans weren't peasants," Bridget said, determined to steer their conversation another direction.

"Aren't you the most exasperating—" He shook his head. "No. The Mulligans became simple farmers by choice," he said, half-facing her now.

He seemed almost friendly now as Bridget allowed her gaze to travel the length of him and back. Wind ruffled his overly long hair and made her heart do a little somersault right there in her chest. What would old Doc Boliver back in Reedville have called that? A ventricular something-or-other, no doubt.

She called it downright disturbing.

Her breath caught as Riley turned more fully toward her. The man could have stepped from the pages of one of the historical romances Mrs. Larabee devoured, and had passed on to Bridget. He was rugged, square-jawed, with long dark curls any woman would've loved to run her fingers through.

The urge to do so overtook her and she raised her hand to trail her fingertips through the longest strands near his massive shoulder. A flame flared in his bright blue eyes, so hot it threatened to incinerate them both.

A tremor coursed through her, compounding her need and her confusion. The castle's infernal whispering commenced again and she took a step toward him. What was it about this man that made her want to do things she hadn't wanted to do with anyone since her husband's death?

"I wish I could understand what it's saying," he said, not pulling away as she stroked his hair. "And to whom."

"So do I." She didn't have to ask him for an explanation, for the same thought plagued her.
Caisleán Dubh
was speaking to them, and only to them. It had also spoken to Culley. The brothers belonged to the castle and the land, but Bridget didn't. Why her?

"And why do
you
hear it?" he asked, echoing her own thoughts.

There was no harshness in his voice as he stood facing her while she shamelessly trailed her fingers through his gleaming black hair.

"I don't know." Her voice sounded huskier than usual—downright sultry. Her cheeks warmed and she struggled against the need to bury both her hands in his hair and pull his lips down to meet hers. Yes, a kiss. She wanted—no, needed—to kiss this man more than she needed to draw her next breath.

It was nonsense.

It was destiny.

Listen to yourself.
The voice of reason tried to argue, but the castle's whispering and the bewildering flame that burned within her defeated logic and common sense.

Still, she didn't move any closer, though she wanted to more than anything. Instead, she waited and listened as the rhythm of her pulse melded with the cadence of the castle's whispers.

"We'd best get back before Mum starts worrying herself," he said thickly, though the spark in his eyes said he wanted to do something far different.

"You want to kiss me," she said, then bit her lower lip as she realized what she'd said.

The blaze in his eyes flared and he nodded once. "But I won't."

"No, of course not."

They were both pitiful liars.

Chapter 9

Riley had skipped breakfast, barely tasted lunch, but he absolutely gorged himself at supper. The roast Bridget had prepared practically melted in a man's mouth. Cabbage, onions, and spuds swam temptingly in the rich brown gravy surrounding the meat—a bit of heaven in every morsel.

Filled to near bursting, he leaned back in his chair and knew he had to pay his compliments to the cook. Everyone had watched him savor each bite, and to ignore the person who had prepared the feast would be inexcusable.

Bridget confused him. One moment she seemed so genuine he almost forgot that she'd lured his gullible young brother into her bed. Furthermore, he mustn't forget that if Culley hadn't been with Bridget in Tennessee, he might still be alive. Wondering wouldn't bring Culley back, but Riley had best not forget that again.

He'd come far too close to kissing her this afternoon. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he vowed to work harder on his self-control. Unfortunately, his anatomy had other ideas. Bloody inconvenient.

All the food Riley had consumed set well in his stomach and he sighed. Without looking at Bridget, he made the sacrifice and said, "Fine meal."

Maggie gasped.

Mum said, "Praise be."

Bridget remained silent. He ventured a look at her and found her cheeks flushed and her gaze directed toward her lap. She was easier to tolerate when she chattered nonsense like the infernal bird that perched outside his bedroom window every bloody morning. This silent Bridget was more disconcerting.

More dangerous.

"I hope Maggie learns to cook as well," he continued, forcing himself to play the role. Why were they all so shocked by common courtesy? He wasn't
that
much of a boor. Was he? Aye, well, toward Bridget he had been, but nothing had changed.

"Granny taught Momma to be the best cook in the whole world," Jacob said, wriggling with obvious pride.

"Aye, lad, I believe she may be just that," Mum said.

Riley added, "If she can teach our Maggie to cook anything edible, won't I be dancing a jig in the center of Ballybronagh?"

"Well, now, isn't that something I'd like to see?" Maggie asked. "Riley Mulligan dancing. Maybe he'll even smile. Imagine that."

"Never happen," Mum teased.

Riley's face grew hot as the exchange of good-natured barbs continued.
Jaysus.
He wasn't an ogre. He knew how to smile. How was it that his family thought so little of him?

"Ah, boyo, 'tis funnin' with you, we are." Mum reached behind Jacob and gave Riley's shoulder a squeeze.

Shite.
He wasn't a lad in need of comfort. He pushed away from the table and rose. "I'm going to the stable, where a man might get a bit of respect."

"Can I come?"

Riley froze at hearing the lad's softly asked question. His breath stuttered free and he inclined his head without looking at anyone else. "Aye." He shot a quick glance at Bridget. "If it's agreeable to your mum."

Riley Mulligan was going soft.

The gratitude shining in Bridget's eyes nearly unhinged him. He couldn't draw a decent breath for several seconds.

"Be careful," Bridget said, her gaze still fixed on him.

Something tightened around Riley's chest as Jacob jumped up and hurried to the door. The lad's enthusiasm reminded him so much of Culley, he was taken back more than twenty years to this very same kitchen.

Jaysus, this child is my brother's son.

Shame for the way he'd treated Jacob at first pricked at Riley as he tore his gaze from Bridget's and made his way to the door. He stared at the peg holding his heavy, old fisherman's jumper. Beside it, Jacob's much smaller sweatshirt hung as if it belonged there. And it did belong there.

Just as Jacob belonged here at his side.

Memories flashed unbidden to Riley's mind. He and Culley racing across the field toward the sea. He and Culley in the meadow, staring up at the clouds. He and Culley duking it out over something or another. A smile curved Riley's lips.

"Uncle Riley can too smile," Jacob announced. "See?"

Riley's smile faded as he stared at Jacob's pointing finger. He glanced across the room and met his mum's knowing gaze. The old woman saw Riley's heart, but knowing that didn't gnaw at him at all. She was his mum.

A cap hung on the end peg that hadn't been worn in more than seven years. Riley reached for it, his heart thundering against his ribs as he closed his fingers about the brim and removed the dusty wool beret. For a few moments, all he could do was stare at it. And remember...