Mulligan Stew (27 page)

The temptation to climb those stairs was too great, but she didn't want to risk injury. If she disappeared, Riley would find her inside the castle, and, well, there'd be old Billy Hell again.

She shined the light up at a painting over the hearth. It was massive, easily as tall as a grown man. Dust, damp salty air, and age had nearly obliterated the image, though she could tell it was a painting of a person standing. The frame was heavy gold with an intricate design.

She reached for the bottom of the frame and the whispering grew more frantic, as if urging her to touch it. "Now I'm really being silly." Besides, she couldn't quite reach it without a stepladder.

Archways led to other rooms—some with heavy, planked doors and some without. The floor beneath her feet was made from some kind of stone, too. Perhaps after all the layers of filth were removed, she would learn it was marble. The thought of a clean marble floor with massive tables covered with Irish lace tablecloths exploded in her mind. She would hire a musician to play the harp, or maybe even Riley would play some quiet music one night.

The thought of Riley destroyed the image. He would never do anything to support her dream, though he had agreed to the inspection.

Under duress.

Bridget grinned, remembering her son's outrageous blackmail attempt. Well, it had been more than an attempt. Perhaps there was more Frye in that boy than she'd realized.

Her thoughts returned to Riley—the way he'd shown Jacob to hold the fiddle, and how patiently he'd tolerated the ungodly screeching her son had produced. To make matters worse, the man was unbelievably handsome, and Bridget suspected he didn't even realize it. That made him all the more appealing to her.

And dangerous.

She would never forget the way he'd touched her that night in the meadow. And how desperately she'd wanted him to kiss her.

And more.

"Enough of that." She drew a deep breath and sneezed.

Focusing again on her mission, she circled the perimeter of the room, not venturing into any others now. It wouldn't kill her to wait for the inspector before seeing the rest of the castle.

She'd just needed to confirm her belief that
Caisleán Dubh
could be restored. So far, she'd seen nothing to make her believe otherwise.

Again, her gaze and the flashlight drifted toward the massive, curving staircase. The banister was intricately carved. Perspiration coated her flesh and her mouth went dry as she approached it. Touched it.

Her breath froze in her throat and her entire body went rigid. "Oh, my God." Memories of her most recent dream flashed through her brain like a slide show.

The man—her dream lover—had touched her. She rested her hand over her breast. He'd kissed her. She brought trembling fingers to her mouth. He'd suckled her until she'd nearly wept from the pleasure of his warm mouth tugging at her aching breasts.

Fire pulsed through her. The images grew more detailed, and she felt him touching her. Weak with desire, she fell to her knees at the base of the steps, clutching her flashlight in one hand and the banister in the other.

Her private parts contracted against her sharp need. She tugged at her sweater, suddenly wanting to be free of it and all her clothing. Then he could touch all of her again.

She wrenched her cardigan off and flung it to the dusty floor. Too many barriers still separated her from him. He was here. She felt him waiting for her.

Wanting her.

She pulled the clip from her hair. His fingers combed through the tresses until they tumbled about her shoulders. Her pullover sweater slipped over her head at his urging, though she wasn't sure if she'd done it or he had.

She couldn't think.

All she could do was want.

And need.

He pulled her to her feet and leaned her back over the banister, tasting her bra-covered nipple with hungry lips, his sharp teeth nipping her through the fabric. She wanted more. So much more.

He cupped her breast in one hand, holding her with one strong arm behind her waist. Her breast swelled into his mouth, urging him to drink from her, to take her to a place she'd never been before.

Strong hands gripped her waist and hauled her against a rock hard body. Something was different, though hunger still pulsed within her. The flashlight was at her feet, shining up at the man who held her so roughly.

His eyes gleamed with colorless intensity. The planes and angles of his features were hard, as if chiseled from the same substance as the banister.

"What the devil are you doing here?" he asked.

That voice. This man spoke English. Familiar. Bridget tried to force her mind and her desire into synch, but all she could think about was being touched. Kissed. Wanted.

"The whispering," he said so softly she barely heard him.

"I hear it," she said, pressing her hips against his, and groaning as his hard, heated length throbbed in response.

With a growl, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her back outside.

Chapter 13

Riley was mad. Angry.

Horny.

Since the second he'd lain eyes on Bridget, all he'd been able to think or dream about was having a bit of a ride. More than a bit.

Admit it, Mulligan—you're like a bull in autumn after the nearest heifer.

He'd gone for an innocent walk and seen a light shining through the shuttered windows. Afraid Jacob had snuck out of the house for another adventure, Riley had raced into
Caisleán Dubh
for the second time on this
fecked
up day.

To find Bridget—not the lad—writhing in what appeared to be the throes of, well, ecstasy.

Shite.

After the sizzling dreams Riley'd been having of late—not to mention lusting after Bridget while awake—finding her thus had unhinged him.

A shudder of longing rippled through him as he lowered her to the ground before him, her delectable body sliding along the length of his until she landed on her feet and swayed toward him. The castle's infernal whispering circled him—them—driving him to keep her snug against him. Their hearts thudded in unison, echoing in regions below their waists, and their breath came in short, ragged gasps.

"Kiss me," she invited, her breath warm against his cheek.

Jaysus, how he wanted her. He inched closer to her mouth—her soft, full, tempting mouth. He'd resisted the powerful urge to kiss her for days, but once he'd entered the castle, any semblance of control had burst. Vanished. Dissipated. He'd merely touched her about the waist at first, but her response had left him defenseless to her charms.

Aye, and weren't her charms desirable?

Poor Culley had surely lost before the battle had even begun. And Riley was no better, no stronger.

He swallowed hard as Bridget rubbed herself against him, driving him mad with the hunger that had become as much a part of him as the air he breathed since the moment he'd first lain eyes on the
cailleach
.

Cailleach?
Aye, she was a witch, a goddess, a temptress—all rolled into a package he craved more than air and water and decency.

He cupped her chin in his hand, none too gently, tilting her head back to bring her lips to just the right angle. When he'd found her writhing and moaning—and alone—he'd gone mad with need. He wanted nothing more than to satisfy her longing. And his.

In fact, he couldn't imagine
not
doing just that. Now. Here on the earth itself at the castle's base, with the whispering whirring mercilessly about them. Aye, he would kiss this woman at last, and he would do a bloody fine job of it.

With a single powerful tug, he brought her even more fully against him, her softness melding deliciously with his hardness. Oh, aye, and had he ever been as hard as he was now? Heat spiraled through him, culminating right between his thighs. He groaned in agony and anticipation.

She rotated her pelvis against him again. He growled as he lowered her to the ground and fell atop her, hovering over her for several moments of pure torture. Their breaths mingled; their hearts thudded in unison. Time stopped.

Then he kissed her. Oh, but he shouldn't have. The moment his lips met hers, he was lost. She was not only the most tempting woman he'd ever met, she was the sweetest tasting. He claimed her mouth, parted her lips, staked his claim of her with each thrust of his tongue.

And his tongue wasn't the only part of him with a mind toward thrusting.

Blood sizzled along his veins, converging between his thighs. He couldn't think. He couldn't reason. He couldn't effing breathe.

All he could do was want and need. He had a bad case of what Gilhooley called Irish craving. After all, it was common knowledge that Irishmen made the best lovers.

And Riley desperately wanted the chance to prove that to Bridget. For a fleeting moment, he remembered that he wasn't her first Irish lover, but raging passion defeated logic.

Her mouth was warm. Moist. Sweet. He explored the smoothness of her teeth, the silkiness of her tongue, the warmth of her palate. He needed her like he needed his next meal. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

For her.

For Bridget.

The castle's whispering spun around him like a devil wind, driving him closer to the brink. He couldn't hold himself back. He would take her here in the sand like a rutting beast, and he would
like
it.

Nay, he would savor it.

Mad with the lust thrumming through him, Riley filled his hands with her breasts. He'd never admired a woman's breasts more than Bridget's. He wanted to taste them. He wanted them naked and pressed against his chest while he rode her hard and deep and long.

Gasping, he broke their kiss, licking his way along the side of her throat, resting for an instant at the base. He pressed her breasts together, just now noticing that she wore only a bra and her jeans. He had no idea where her jumper had gone and he didn't care.

All he knew was he had to get rid of all the physical barriers separating them. He wanted her flesh against his. He wanted to feel her smoothness against his roughness. He wanted it all.

And he wanted it now.

He reached behind her and released the tricky clasp on her bra. She wriggled free of the wretched thing and he froze above her just as the moon rose above the tower of
Caisleán Dubh
. Bathed in silver, her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing, her nipples dark and erect against the plump, silvery firmness.

He made a sound that dangerously resembled a whimper as he lowered his face between her luscious breasts and inhaled her essence. Then he kissed his way up the inner slope and circled the sweet nub with his tongue. He trembled over her, wanting this so much it frightened him.

Riley Mulligan had feared only one thing in his life. Before Bridget.

The Curse.

Feck
the Curse.
All he wanted was this woman, this temptress.
Sex!
He drew her deeply into his mouth, moaning with pleasure as he tasted her sweetness. He'd never desired a woman more.

Never wanted to act on that desire less.

He
burned
for her. Burned with a need so fierce he couldn't fight it. His blood bubbled through his veins, driving him to find the release that he knew only Bridget could provide. No other woman would ever sate this mad hunger.

Not in Shannon. Not anywhere.

Not ever.

"Sweet," he murmured against her, brushing his thumb against her other nipple.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him against her. He rocked against the cradle of her womanhood, wanting so much more. Just thinking about burying himself within her heated folds was enough to make him shudder and throb against her. She squirmed and writhed and whimpered, pleading with him to take her, to fill her.

That did it.

He reached between them and released the snap and zipper of her jeans, shoving them down her slim hips. She squirmed and attempted to assist him, making supremely sexual sounds of encouragement.