Mulligan Stew (8 page)

Jacob appeared thoughtful, but finally nodded. A huge yawn split his face a moment later and Bridget laughed quietly. "I reckon this world traveler is ready for bed."

The open fondness shining in Fiona's eyes when she looked back at her made Bridget warm and happy all over. She felt welcomed and wanted, and her heart swelled with affection for the older woman. "Thank you," she whispered, and Fiona smiled with a gentle nod.

They understood each other. They'd both loved Culley—one as a momma and the other as a wife. And they both loved his son now. An invisible and sacred bond drew them together. Bridget had shared a similar bond with Granny—God rest her soul. Women needed this sense of family and belonging.

"Come along, Jacob," Maggie said, rising. "I'll take you up to your room."

Jacob bent down and placed a kiss on Fiona's cheek, much the same way he'd done his great-granny's back in Tennessee. "'Night,
Mamó
," he said.

"Good night, lad." Fiona patted her grandson's cheek.

"I'll be up to tuck you in directly," Bridget said, earning a smile and a wave, even as the boy cast his uncle a wary glance. Maggie also seemed to sense her nephew's fear of Riley and, when her brother looked her way, the girl tossed her head as if daring him to comment. She took Jacob's hand and they headed toward the stairs.

Riley's gaze returned to Bridget after his sister and Jacob were gone. He shook his head very slowly and arched one dark brow as if asking a question.

Bridget stared intently into his blue, blue eyes. She wanted him to welcome her and to believe her as his momma and sister had. After all, he was Culley's brother. Her brother-in-law. Jacob's only uncle.

Remembering what Mr. Larabee had said about Riley, she lifted her chin a notch, refusing to give an inch. The man had been rude to her, but he hadn't stated his suspicions or resentments outright. Until he did, she refused to confront him about them.

When it came to stubborn pride, Riley Mulligan had met his match.

* * *

Bridget tucked the patchwork quilt around her son's narrow shoulders. They had the entire attic to themselves—a small alcove with a narrow bed for Jacob and the main room with a high four poster, a small iron stove in the corner near the window, and a rocking chair. They even had their own bathroom with an old claw-footed tub beneath a nice window.

Luxury. Pure luxury.

She washed her face and slipped into her worn flannel nightgown, then climbed into the bed, snuggling into—of all things—a feather bed. She had a vague memory of visiting her great-granny's cabin in the hills and sleeping in a feather bed once, and she'd thought then that it was the grandest thing in the world. She'd been right.

Thanking God for bringing them here to Culley's family, tears stung her eyes and she blinked. They'd come so close to being homeless, and now they not only had a home—at least for a while—but a family. A
real
family.

Her heart warmed all over again as she remembered the way Fiona Mulligan had welcomed and embraced them. Jacob had a real granny again, an aunt, and an uncle—well, sort of an uncle. Fiona and Maggie's warmth helped make up for Riley's aloofness. Surely he would realize how ridiculous it was to deny Jacob's relationship. The family resemblance was uncanny. Any fool could see it.

"Thank you, Lord," she whispered on a sigh.

Smiling, she turned on her side and clicked off the lamp. She folded her arms across her chest and stared into the dark for what seemed like hours. Sleep eluded her and she turned to her other side, staring at the patch of moonlight on the bedroom floor.

What time was it in Tennessee right now? She was exhausted, yet she couldn't sleep. Too much excitement, no doubt. She rose and padded barefoot to the long narrow window, welcoming the stove's radiant heat and the moonlight that bathed her face. The night was clear and cool. Mrs. Mulligan had said at dinner that the weather was fair for this time of year. Considering how incredibly green Ireland was, Bridget suspected rain was more common than sunshine.

Her gaze followed a streak of moonlight across the field toward the sea, but something tall, dark, and foreboding thrust upward from the earth to block her visual journey.
Caisleán Dubh.

A tremor raced through her and she bit her lower lip. There was no such thing as a curse, yet something about that castle called out to her yet gave her the creeps at the same time.

A warning... or a welcome?

Oh, stop it, Bridget.
With a sigh, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass and watched a lone figure stride through the moonlight. Her heart pressed upward against her throat. The figure paused and turned toward the cottage, and she had the undeniable feeling that he could see her standing there.

He was too far away to identify, but she knew somehow that the man was Riley Mulligan. Who else could he be? The land between the cottage and the castle all belonged to the Mulligans, and Riley was the only man in the family besides young Jacob.

He stood there unmoving, staring—so she imagined—right at her. After a few moments, he turned and continued on across the meadow. She released a shaky breath that fogged the windowpane. Rubbing the back of her neck, she went to peer at her sleeping son and smiled. At least one of them could rest.

A huge yawn tugged at her mouth and she decided she might try again, too. After all, tomorrow would be their first full day in Ireland, and she wanted to greet it fresh and rested.

The room was cool despite the stove, and she welcomed the weight of the patchwork quilt, tugging its softness up around her chin. As she had every night since learning her husband hadn't abandoned her, she pictured Culley's shy grin as he'd looked at their wedding, then later after they'd consummated their union. She reminded herself that their son had been conceived in love.

Her body warmed and relaxed. Her husband had been her first—and, so far, only—lover. She remembered that night as if it had been only yesterday.

He'd been so gentle, showing her how to please and be pleased. That first time had hurt some, but later... She sighed and a sad smile curved her lips. All those years of denying her love for Culley were past. Now she could remember him fondly and grieve for him.

And forgive herself for the years of doubt and suspicion...

Gradually, the image of Culley faded and another replaced it. This man was older, his hair long and shaggy, falling in dark waves to impossibly broad shoulders. His skin was bronzed from the sun, and his lips didn't display even the ghost of a smile. In fact, he scowled. Dark and brooding, Riley Mulligan's image filled her mind just as sleep finally overtook her.

And she dreamed.

The corner of the bed dipped from his weight and she felt his warmth before he touched her. He stroked her shoulder gently, trailing his fingertips to the slope of her throat, then along the neckline of her nightgown.

She wanted to touch him, too, and reached out to place her palms flat against his chest. Brazenly, she inched her hands lower to his ribs, marveling at the tautness of his abdomen. Reminding herself she was dreaming, she explored his body, outlining the slight indentation at his navel with the tip of her finger. Suspicion niggled at her just before his erection brushed against her hip.

He was naked.

So it was
that
kind of dream. But it was a dream, so the forbidden was allowed. A thrill shot through her and she didn't resist when her faceless lover eased her gown from her shoulders and slipped it down to her waist, baring her breasts to the cool night air. Her nipples tightened and puckered against the chill and a shiver skated down her spine.

Pressing her back against the soft bed, he hovered over her, his hard body burning her without touching. Then his lips sought hers, gentle at first, coaxing her mouth into a more pliant line. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and she opened to him, welcoming his hot, wet kiss as he buried his fingers in her hair.

Her nipples thrust upward and her breasts grew heavy. The crisp hair of his chest brushed against her taut peaks and a fire ignited her blood. No longer cold, she stared through the darkness without seeing his face at all.

She wanted him. Needed him.

He left her mouth and kissed her jaw, her throat, the curve of her shoulder. Her breath came rapidly now, her body suffused with liquid fire. No trace of chill remained as he blazed a trail along her collarbone, inching his way lower.

When at long last he cupped the weight of her breasts in both hands, she watched the dark shape of his head lower. Anticipation soared through her, but she resisted the impulse to link her hands behind his neck and drag him to her. She wanted his hot, wet mouth on her breast. God, what had come over her? She was out of her mind with desire. Hunger. Need.

He outlined her nipple with his tongue, lapping nearer the peak with each revolution. Finally, he covered one nipple with his lips and drew her deeply into his mouth as he massaged the other with his thumb.

She was on fire. So hot. She'd never felt this way before. He shared himself equally between her breasts and she finally surrendered to the urge to clutch him to her, pressing her bare flesh more fully into the heat of his mouth.

He eased one hand along the curve of her hip, pressing his rigid length against her bare thigh. He was so large, so hard, so ready. Something deep in her core tightened around an unbearable emptiness—a void she knew without a doubt that he could fill. And then some.

She murmured something shameless, though she wasn't sure of her words. All she knew was the wanting, the needing, the burning.

Then he left her breasts and hovered over her, poised between her thighs. A momentary panic stole through her, but she reminded herself yet again that this was a dream. Only a dream. She'd never had such an explicitly erotic dream before, but she figured as dreams went this one was a humdinger.

All right. She placed her hands on his slim hips, felt the muscles rippling in his buttocks. Any moment now, he would take the next step. She held her breath.

He muttered something in a husky voice and waited.

"What?" she asked, wondering what language he spoke. Just her luck to conjure up a dream lover who didn't speak English.

He remained poised above her for endless moments, and she felt his stare boring into her. What the devil was he waiting for anyway? She knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

He repeated the strange words, and she realized from his tone that he was asking her a question. She shook her head, trying to see his face through the darkness, but there was nothing.

A mist swirled about her and her dream lover vanished.

Bridget bolted upright in her bed, clutching the high collar of her nightgown with both fists. Gasping for breath, she clawed the tightness away from her throat until her lungs filled with sweet air. Sweat dripped down her face and neck, trickling between her aching breasts.

"A dream," she whispered, shoving her hair back from her face as she swung her feet to the cold floor. Her heart thundered at an alarming rate as she grabbed for the glass of water on her night stand and drained it.

Slowly, her breathing eased and her body cooled. She walked to the window again. The moon was higher now, shining across the field but not through her window any longer.

The man was there again, staring toward the house.

Toward her.

The castle loomed ominously in the background and she thought for a moment what a great poster it would make for a Stephen King movie or a Gothic romance. The brooding Irishman, the dark castle, the silvery moonlight.

And the damsel in distress?

She laughed quietly at her own foolishness. She sure as heck wasn't a damsel, nor was she in distress. Exactly. A yawn gripped her and she stretched, closing her eyes for only a moment. Reopening them, she looked outside again.

The man was gone.

Chapter 4

Riley gave up on sleep shortly before dawn. What little rest he'd managed to find had been disturbed by dreams hot enough to make a man ache. He couldn't remember dreams so vivid since adolescence. He and Culley had kidded around about—