Perfect Timing (23 page)

Ceara looked at him as if he had marbles rattling between his ears. He was beginning to wonder if she was right.

* * *

Over the next few days, Loni continued to rally—to the utter amazement of her physicians, both in Crystal Falls and Portland. As Clint’s life inched back toward some semblance of normalcy, Quincy felt as if his were spinning out of control. For as long as he could remember, he’d heard his dad say that a man should never get the cart before the horse, and by marrying Ceara, that was precisely what Quincy had done.

How in the hell did a man handle falling wildly in love with his wife? She adored his dogs, and she’d flatly informed him that they were moving back home, no longer bunking with Pauline. That was fine with Quincy; he’d sorely missed Bubba and Billy Bob, but what was he supposed to tell his wife when he found her test-tasting the commercial dog food and pronouncing it “unfit fer man or beast”? She insisted with a stubborn jut of her chin that her new canine friends would eat regular food—by which she meant people food—even if she had to cook it for them herself. Since she couldn’t as yet cook much of anything, Quincy got online to research dog food recipes and soon found himself with the additional duty of being the in-house pet chef.

Ceara also seemed to love his horses and couldn’t wait to ride, but she had never seen a Western saddle, and Quincy decided to postpone all equine activities until he could focus entirely on teaching her the techniques of riding astride instead of sidesaddle. Ceara took the disappointment in good form and settled for visiting the arena on a daily basis. At first Quincy balked at allowing her to do any physically taxing work, but Ceara was persistent, and before he knew it, she was helping Pauline feed and groom the animals, plus clean the stalls.

She exhibited an uncanny way with horses, and spent hours each day with them. Even his bitchiest mares and orneriest stallions became big old marshmallows with Ceara. It was as if she had some magical way of communicating with them that other human beings lacked. Same went for Bubba and Billy Bob, who, despite Quincy’s sporadic efforts, had always been sorely lacking in social graces. Quincy had considered dog obedience classes, but he’d never had the time for it. Now, with his wife in the house, he had dogs that suddenly sat when told and didn’t jump up on him or put their paws on the edge of the table during a meal to beg for food. Quincy had always fondly called his Australian shepherds “Mexican jumping beans on speed,” but the description no longer fit. Even more amazing, he’d never seen Ceara use a cross tone with them or discipline them in any way; the animals simply worshiped her and seemed to sense what behaviors would please her and which ones wouldn’t.

Too bad he wasn’t gifted with the same intuition.

Well, Quincy was a goner, right along with Bubba and Billy Bob. How could any man in his right mind
not
fall in love with Ceara? She was sweet and funny and absolutely dear. That she was gorgeous was frosting on the cake. Being married to her was as easy as slipping his feet into a pair of old boots.

Only what about dating? And candlelight dinners? Or talking so long on the phone that their voices gave out, and they were happy to just hear each other breathe? Quincy felt as if the curse had cheated Ceara out of a proper courtship. He wished he could rectify that, but his days had become so busy, with not only a ranch to run, but also a wife who needed to be taught how to do nearly everything, that he honestly didn’t have much time for romance.

Ceara and his relationship was fraught with as much miscommunication as it was with pure fun. She found everything in his world peculiar, bewildering, or downright amazing as she familiarized herself with the twenty-first century: automobiles, ATVs, cell phones, radios, stereos, remote controls, computers, iPads, clothing on other women that she felt was indecent, television, Netflix, the theater, and fine restaurants.

On the following Friday night, a week and one day after their wedding, Quincy took his bride to a new French Creole restaurant that was so high-end there were no prices on the menu. Hello? He needed to court his wife, and she deserved nothing but the best.

It went without saying that Ceara couldn’t make sense of the entrée selections, but Quincy didn’t expect to be baffled himself. What the hell was Crevettes à la Créole or Langouste Grillée? He found himself regretting that he’d studied Spanish instead of French, but to be fair to himself, he’d dined in French places before and had no trouble deciphering the language. Ordering wine was easy enough, and he was feeling so inadequate by the time the waiter brought it to the table that he decided to drink his fair share of the bottle.

Apparently he was scowling, because Ceara asked, “What is it, Quincy? Ye look as if ye want to murder someone.”

He gave up on trying to act sophisticated. “I don’t know what the frigging hell to order.”
Ouch
. When it came to rough language, Ceara was a sponge. “Forget I said that, and don’t
you
say it again. Let me rephrase. I can’t read the damned menu.”

Her eyes danced with delight. “’Tis wonderful that ye canna. Nor can I.” She picked up her menu and squinted at the offerings. “We shall have an adventure!”

Quincy was afraid he’d accidentally order her snails. Most menus in a foreign language had all the entrées underscored with a translation into English to describe the dish. Not so at this joint. He personally enjoyed escargot, but he was afraid Ceara would gag as she tried to swallow. “Let’s try the Filet de Truite Florentine. At least I know what it is.”

She frowned. “I do na.”

Quincy had once seen the dish on a menu and explained that it was trout fried in a light batter and smothered in a tasty lemon sauce.
Fried
. His normally healthful diet was going to hell in a handbasket. He could almost feel his arteries going
glug-glug
in protest. He didn’t care. Being with Ceara was habit-forming, and if he took his last breath well before turning one hundred, at least he was finally enjoying the journey.

He poured them each some wine. He’d selected a white, slightly on the sweet side, even though he hadn’t known for sure what they would eat. Ceara wrinkled her nose when she took a sip; then she smiled. “Not champagne, but ’tis lovely.”

Her oval face glowed in the candlelight. Her eyes shimmered like sapphires. She was so beautiful, even in her funny-looking clothes, that his mouth went dry. He hoped as she gazed back at him that she was thinking similar thoughts about him. He’d decided to spruce up for the occasion and taken his Western-cut sports jacket out of storage. In addition to a dress shirt, he wore a string tie that boasted a hunk of amber imported from Japan. He felt downright fancy. Hell, he’d even spit-shined his boots.

The waiter came to take their order. Ceara surprised Quincy by holding the menu up and pointing to a selection he couldn’t see, saying, “I’ll be trying this, if ye please.”

Quincy hoped it wasn’t something awful, but what the hell. She seemed to be delighted to have a culinary adventure with him. Maybe, he decided, his not knowing how to read the menu made her feel on more equal ground. His being suave and sophisticated clearly didn’t matter to her. He relaxed and began to enjoy the dinner.

Remembering the films of Ceara that he’d studied after her surprising invasion of his arena, he asked her how she so easily charmed his difficult horses, particularly Beethoven.

“’Tis one of me gifts, understanding animals.” She fluttered her fingertips near her temple. “I have lost much of it. Afore coming forward, I could talk to them inside me head. Now that is gone.” A sad look settled on her lovely features, but then she brightened. “’Tis no big deal.” Her cheeks went pink. “That is how ye say it? When something does na matter, I mean.”

Quincy nodded. “I’m sorry you’ve lost so many of your gifts.”

“I’ve not lost
all
of them. It’s only that the ones I still have are weaker.” She rested her elbows on the table and fingered her pretty lace shawl, the ends of which she’d looped over her breasts. “’Tis strange. When I use me gifts now, it makes me shaky in the legs and a wee bit ill.”

“Then don’t use them.”

She laughed and tugged her braid forward over her shoulder. “’Tis like asking me to stop breathing. If I said to ye, ‘Stop seeing,’ could ye do it? Me gifts . . . well, I’ve always had them. ’Tis like using yer hands to pick up things. Ye do not think before ye do it.”

Just then the maître d’, followed by a waiter with a small platter balanced on his upturned palm, stopped at Quincy’s side and set a copper dish, roiling with heated alcohol, at the center of the table. While the waiter placed coffee mugs near the plates, the maître d’ added coffee to the bowl, ignited it, and then, streaming blue fire over the tablecloth from a ladle, filled the cups. Quincy had no time to object—or to inform the gentlemen that he hadn’t ordered a flaming coffee, which was traditionally an after-dinner drink.

Ceara shrieked, leaped to her feet, and yelled, “God’s teeth!” before emptying both her water and wine goblet on the flames. Snatching Quincy’s water glass in case the fire needed further baptizing, she whirled on the astounded waiter. “Are ye mad?” she cried. “Holy Mother of God, we’re here to be fed, not burned.”

The hum of conversation in the restaurant came to a sudden halt. The maître d, forgetting his fake French accent, said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. It scared the hell out of me the first time I saw it, too.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s harmless, I swear, all just for show.”

Quincy had to swallow hard for fear he’d burst out laughing. Ceara’s face had gone as white as chalk. She was a spunky little thing, though, and quickly recovered her composure. “’Tis sorry I am fer making such a mess,” she said shakily, “but in future, afore ye set a woman afire, ye should give her fair warning.”

Speaking softly to the servers, Quincy explained that the coffee had been delivered to the wrong diners. After apologizing profusely, the maître d’ escorted them to a new table, and soon the appetizer Ceara had ordered, raw oysters on the shell, was served to them, along with a new bottle of wine, compliments of the house. Quincy expected Ceara to turn up her nose and refuse to suck slimy stuff into her mouth. But, as always, she surprised him. She studied him as he swallowed an oyster, then followed his lead like a lady born to the manor.

“’Tis how we eat raw oysters at home as well,” she told him. “’Tis glad I am to know that not everything has changed. Me sister, Brigid, and I always hoped to discover a pearl in one of ours, but we ne’er did.”

Watching her mouth purse around the shell and hearing the slight slurping sounds she made gave Quincy a hard-on. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair, glad for the generous fall of the white linen tablecloth. Being with Ceara and sharing the same bed with her every night had his body screaming for release. Over the last few days, Quincy had been making subtle moves on her, trailing a finger along her throat, caressing her shoulder, or toying with her braid so he could titillate the sensitive nerve endings along her spine. Each time, he could have sworn she’d gotten turned on. On more than one occasion, he’d felt sure she’d even smiled invitingly at him. But never once had the words he needed to hear passed her lips.

Saying she wouldn’t object was a hell of a lot different from saying she’d enjoyed his lovemaking and wanted to repeat the experience.

Maybe he’d lost his touch. He hadn’t dated for so long, his moves might be rusty.
Nah
. He wasn’t
that
out of practice. Ceara was either not getting the message, or she was being deliberately obtuse, or she was getting the message loud and clear and purposely ignoring it. He studied her across the table, noting every expression that crossed her face. She didn’t strike him as a woman with a talent for playing games. In fact, just the opposite. She was as easy to read as a freeway billboard. So why, for the first time in his adult life, was he striking out with a woman?

He knew their first encounter had been painful for her. Maybe, in her innocence, she thought it would hurt like that every time. If so, he needed to set her straight. He decided to lead into the conversation slowly.

“I’ve got a question I’ve been dying to ask you. How did a beautiful woman like you manage to remain a virgin until the ripe old age of twenty-six?”

She smiled slightly. “’Twasna a choice, ye ken. From the moment of me birth, me da had high hopes of forming a strong alliance with another chiefdom by arranging a marriage fer me with another leader’s son. As it happened, I developed a great fondness for a young man who was suitable, but before we could be married, he was killed in a horse riding accident.”

Quincy noted that sadness flickered in her eyes for only an instant, and then her expression brightened. “After his death, I couldna find another man to suit me, and as I told ye on our wedding night, me da wouldna force me into marriage with someone I dinna find appealing.”

“And during all the years that followed, you never—well, you know—fooled around? Women of today enjoy intimate relationships with men in and out of marriage.”

She arched a burnished brow. “Is that what ye call it now, ‘fooling around’? In me time, ’tis called fornication. ’Tis unacceptable fer an unmarried lady to engage in those activities. According to the church, ’tis a grave sin, and I also had to bear in mind that, long in the tooth though I was, marrying might still be a possibility. In her first marriage, a woman must go to her husband unsullied.”

To Quincy, that sounded archaic, not to mention sexually stifling for the women, but he’d studied enough history to know that attitudes had changed drastically over the centuries. In his time, few brides married as virgins.

“I see,” he said.

She gave him a questioning look. “Would ye have preferred a soiled bride?”

Quincy shook his head. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about you,” he told her, and meant it. He only wished she were a tad more relaxed about discussing sex. He didn’t get it. How could it be brazen of a woman to discuss the physical aspects of a marital relationship with her husband? His imagination stopped well short of such things
never
being discussed in the sixteenth century. That said, maybe Ceara’s mother had never gotten around to explaining to Ceara that such conversations were okay between a husband and wife.