Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (14 page)

B.A.‘s amber eyes traced his countenance with a look that caused Desmond to feel exposed. A Mona Lisa smile curved the corner of that kissable mouth.

“Trying to scare me away, Des? Afraid I might get hurt? Or fear I’ll want more than you’re prepared to give? I think
you’re
the one scared. You’ve taken women on your terms, but you find I’m different. That rattles you.”

B.A. recognized Desmond was a dangerous man. She’d be a fool not to see it. She knew he played some high-stakes game in ever coming to Falgannon. Only, she fathomed something else. Hidden deep under that hard veneer were fleeting glimpses of a little-boy-lost. Those moments moved her, made her want to cradle him. Silly, but her inner voice whispered Desmond was terrified of her. She was outside of his experience. It might be arrogance, but she felt he desperately needed her healing, her love.

“Don’t think. Just kiss me, Des.”

She leaned into him, letting her body press against him, feeling his intense heat. She brushed her lips against his. The pounding of his heart thundered against her, through her. She paused, enjoying recognition of her power to affect this man. Exhilarated, she slowly slid the tip of her tongue along the fullness of his lower lip.

Clearly afraid of giving over control, he held back. Then, with pantherlike reflexes he moved, seizing her mouth with his. He wasn’t gentle. The quickening had hit Desmond—that point in a male when blood leaves his head and travels southward, taking any hope of reason. After the first breathless shock, B.A. decided she didn’t want gentle. She yearned to shatter his iron will, to let loose the surging power he fought to deny.

Still having presence of mind to pinpoint her apron was in the way, she reached around to untie it. Before the knot gave, Desmond dragged the strap over her head, growling in monosyllabic grunts that men revert to when their brains are deprived of oxygen-carrying blood. He rained kisses over her neck, stinging kisses that’d likely mark her. Frissons of arousal snaked over her skin, upward to lodge in her brain, then down, tightening her womb into a hard fist.

Pausing, he muttered to the cat, “Scram, beast,” for Dudley determinedly butted his head against Desmond’s hand on her hip.

Desmond pressed her back against the potting bench, his hands gliding over her shoulders, too fleetingly over her breasts, then her ribs and waist. Rounding over her hips, he lifted her high against him. B.A. gasped. The wooden structure rattled, warning that it wasn’t constructed for hot passionate sex, but she didn’t think Desmond heard as he wedged his thigh between hers, making her ride it.

B.A. stifled a laugh as visions of them crashing into the rose plants and squashing Dudley to a pancake danced through her brain. “Um… Desmond… maybe, you should put me down. I’m not a small lass.”

Nuzzling her hair, he asked, “Afraid I might drop you?” He let her slip a little, teasing, but his eyes dilated as their bodies rubbed together in tormenting friction. Hefting her back up, he commanded in a rugged breath, “Wrap your legs around my hips.”

As she did, he cried out.

“Are you hurt? I told you I wasn’t small. Put me down.”

“Put you down? Not in this lifetime. Your bloody cat bit me!”

“He’s not my—”

“Cat. So you say. I need lessons from Gunter Gable Williams.” In moving out of Dudley’s reach, they teetered.

“Desmond! We’re going to crash!”

“Trust me, B.A.” In a deft move, he swung her to the long benches on the other side of the aisle and away from the bothersome cat. “Ha! Foiled the cat. No more interruptions. Kiss me woman, I earned it.”

His expression was open, not calculating. And it took her breath away. Desmond stared at her in utter awe, as if she were some sort of pastry that he wanted to gobble up in three bites. Expressions such as that did things to a gal’s heart.

The man had no idea what he did to her. No, that’s wrong. He knew precisely how he set her trembling inside. How she could think of nothing but him.

She kissed him. Oh, how she kissed him! Gone were the gentle kisses shared these past two days, a mere prelude to the pagan fire rising to consume them. He devoured her mouth.

Hot damn, teeth and tongues,
Devil B.A. chanted. Angel B.A. fumed about the lack of common sense, how wild passionate sex in the greenhouse was downright dangerous—thorns could get in the trickiest places.

Nothing mattered. Not too many clothes, rickety bench or garden shears gouging into her hip. Only tasting Desmond. Reveling in his male heat, feeling the sculpted muscles.

Desmond tugged her sweater from her jeans. He broke the kiss, gasping for air. With those clever fingers, he stroked her satin-clad breast. Wickedly, the man watched her eyes dilate in pleasure, brushed his thumb back and forth over her pronounced nipple; she arched into his hand. His touch stilled the dueling voices of Angel and Devil B.A. Skimming the bra cup down, he exposed her soft breast to his skilled assault.

Hunger howled and she complied. Rubbing her hips against his, the apex of her female body fit perfectly over the ridge of his erection. Her head lolled to the side as his sharp teeth nipped the skin of her neck. Sensations and desires spiraled higher as she luxuriated in the bliss of him pleasuring her breast. Aware of her faintest gasp, Desmond instinctively knew what she craved, when to trace circles around her areola, when to add a slight pinch to the jutting nipple, setting desire to electrifying her whole body.

Saturated with ecstasy, it took her several seconds to focus beyond Desmond’s shoulder. She needed glasses—more apparently every day. Thinking she’d lost her marbles, she blinked.

“Ahhhhh!” Her scream nearly flexed her body off the potting bench.

The cry was against his left ear, and Desmond flinched. Poor man, he had little time for bereavement over loss of hearing, because when she jerked she knocked the shears off the table and they hit his foot. Dudley, twining around Desmond’s legs begging for attention, took umbrage at her scream and the flying metal projectile. He scaled Desmond’s leg in protest.

“What?”
Desmond moaned. “Dealing with you, B.A. is hazardous to my health.”

At B.A.‘s shriek, Callum nudged Michael the Fiddle. “Why did B.A. scream? I can’t see a bloody thing between the rain outside and them fogging up the glass on the inside.”

“You’re nearsighted,” Michael pointed out.

Willie’s nose pressed against one of the large panes, while the other men rubbed circles for their eyes on the glass. “Not sure… is she looking into his eyes?”

Michael waved at the pair as Desmond turned around and spotted them. “More likely, she’s checking his tonsils. Think he likes it, too.”

Callum, Willie, Robbie, Brian and Ian all waved.

Desmond and B.A. limply lifted their hands in reply.

“Thought the tap on the noggin’ was what she was concerned about? Why inspect his throat?” Willie pondered.

Callum made a prune face, frowning at the shorter man.
“Willa
—for a writer, you show a remarkable lack of imagination sometimes.”

Willie’s chest puffed up. “My imagination lacks nothing. I’m remarkably literal.”

Brian sniggered, shoving them toward the doors.“‘Tis remarkable you literally lack an imagination.”

Dudley detached himself from Desmond and landed on the bench, then sneezed in utter disdain.

“Someday I might look back on this and laugh,” Desmond said. He leaned his head against B.A. to still his rapid breathing. “Right now, I’m considering taking up ritual sacrifice and stuffing their bodies into your peat bog. It’d be that many less brides you’d have to import.”

Chapter 12

“Sorry about… uh… the greenhouse,” Michael the Fiddle apologized, holding up two fingers, signaling for two cards. “With the Web site crashing, B.A.‘s sister calling and all—”

“Sorry?” Desmond hid his cards, hiding glee over his hand. “Not yet you aren’t.”

“Thinking of punishing us poor eejits by cleaning out our pockets, Viking?” Brian the Horseman peeked at the single card he’d asked for and then made a sour face.

Not fooled, Desmond shrugged. “I’m considering.”

“Consider away, Viking.” Michael howled. “See, we’re a poor lot, not a fine propertied gent such as yourself. You’d win romance books from Willie, a swayback horse from Brian and Ian or my fiddle. On the other hand, I’d look right dapper in that leather bomber jacket of yours, or that Rolex would make The Cat Dudley a suitable collar.”

Desmond eyed the hand of cards facedown before the cat who sat in his own chair. “Who plays Dudley’s hand?”

“He plays his own. Kitty, how many cards do you want?” Ian asked the moggie. He got two meows back. “See?”

“I bite. He knew he needs two cards—how?”

“He’s psychic,” Ian answered, deadpan.

Desmond chuckled. “Fine, how do you know which cards to discard?”

Ian pointed to each card in turn and the cat meowed when he touched the ones to discard. “Kitty’s a cardsharp.”

“Why didn’t I know?” On this dotty island, even a poker-playing cat was believable. Desmond decided to test the waters. “B.A. mention I own the northern tip of the isle?”

Everyone’s eyes fell on him, assessing, though not as he anticipated.

Brian nodded. “Herself blethered on about you
thinking
you own the tip. So far, I haven’t seen anything says you do.”

“You’re not adverse to us being neighbors?” Desmond sidestepped the challenge.

Ian grinned. “More time for us lads to whittle down your bank account.”

“Not much on the north end of the isle. Just the castle and the stone circle,” Michael the Story commented, folding his hand in disgust.

“I want the castle.” The words popped out of his mouth before they’d even formed in Desmond’s mind.

“Do you?” Brian’s mouth quirked upward, his pale blue eyes dancing. “There’s only one way to get the castle.”

Desmond didn’t comment. Neither did they. All knew what was said between the lines.

Desmond won the first hand, deliberately lost the next two, giving himself an opportunity to observe these men, pinpoint their ticks that reveal so much in poker. The fourth he won, lost the three following, keeping up that pattern, winning only enough so they didn’t catch on that he forfeited on purpose. Desmond was after something worth more than money—information.

“So, tell me about Evian Deshaunt.” He popped the burning question. It had the resounding thud of a brick dropping to the wooden floor. Michael the Story’s eyes narrowed in appraisal, recognizing Desmond had fed them a line and now reeled them in.

“What do you want to ken other than he dinna have green eyes?”

The men playing at his table avoided his stare, pretending absorption in the cards. Callum excused himself to get some crisps and drinks. “Want a sandwich, Viking?”

“Later.” Not derailed, he focused on Michael the Fiddle—the weakest link. “Come, come, he was married to B.A. for years, and all you can say is he didn’t have green eyes? Surely the man left more of an impression?”

Angus the Ancient dragged his chair discordantly screeching over to their table, sat, then nudged Desmond with his cane. “If one cannot speak well of the dead, ‘tis best to keep one’s gub shut, eh, Viking?”

Interesting. B.A.‘s lads held no love lost for her half-Irish husband. “Face it—despite the interruption at the greenhouse and the peeking in B.A.‘s windows—I get the impression you lads want me and my green eyes to court B.A. That being the case, I’m owed a few facts to know where I stand.”

“We’ll not blacken a man’s character—may he rest in peace. That leaves little to natter about.” Michael the Fiddle leaned his chair back on two legs, rocking. “Will say the cat dinna like him. Only a kitten he was, but Kitty dinna fancy Deshaunt a’tall. Used to piss on his fine Italian loafers every chance he got.”

This drew snickers. Desmond didn’t blame them; he had a hard time suppressing one himself.

That’s not saying much,” Ian qualified. “He hates Callum, too. In fact, outside of the Marys and B.A., you’re the first person he likes.”

Dudley proudly pushed his chest out, the white patch of his fur looking like a bib. Desmond rewarded him with some chin scratches and a Cheese Doodle.

After a long silence Ian added, “He hated living in that wee humble cottage atop the castle. Thought it a pile of rocks that should be torn down. Then B.A. could build a fancy mansion on the site.”

Willie coughed. “Deshaunt’s Plan B. Plan A was to live at Colford Hall, to winter in Italy.”

Innis tottered over, carrying a tray with several bottles of whisky and glasses. “From our own distillery. We produce ten casks a month. Thrice distilled, fifty-two-year-old whisky. It’ll curl your toes. Good for cutting paint if you run short of turpentine.”

The Scot joked. Everyone in the room including Desmond knew Highland whisky of that age fetched several thousand dollars per bottle on any market. Three times that in Japan.

” ‘tis called
Beatha-Stad
—Stop-Breath. Mind now, our lass warned us to keep you from imbibing due to your cosh to the noggin. But a dram is good for the heart. Besides, ‘tis time for the men of Falgannon to bid you a true welcome.”

Strangely touched, Desmond accepted the glass, holding up the dark amber liquid and studying the color. The hue reminded him of B.A.‘s eyes. Something told him Evian Deshaunt hadn’t received fifty-two-year-old paint thinner or the welcome from the men of Falgannon.

As he looked around the tables and saw them raising glasses in salute, a pressure swelled in his chest. He lifted his glass in return, then swallowed the heather-and-peat flavored alcohol. It burned its way to his stomach for more reasons than one.

B.A. jerked upright, blinking sleep-crusted eyes, uncertain what had awakened her.

Noting the first shafts of dawnlight filtering through the windows, she glanced down and switched off the computer. Poor laptop, she’d used it as a pillow again.

The house was abnormally vacant without The Man Desmond and The Cat Dudley. So strange, Desmond had only been in her home for a few days, yet his absence already created such an acute emptiness. How bad would it be if he stayed a month?

Ever so faintly, singing drifted in from outside the cottage. Yawning, she shuffled to the front door to locate the ruckus. Peeking through the panes up the side, she saw Ian, Michael and Callum crawling out of the Rover. They were helping Desmond, though mostly succeeded in falling over each other’s feet. Behind the wheel—and sober—Dennis sat laughing. He shook his head, got out and came around to aid his boss to his feet. Desmond fell forward, but Ian and Michael caught him and wrapped his arms around their necks. They staggered down the walkway.

B.A. opened the door, and Dudley dashed in wearing a paper party hat left over from Hogmanay. He headed for his food bowl in the kitchen. Hands on her hips, she eyed the singing men, who sobered into sniggers at her dour expression. Desmond stopped before her, flashed a sleepy smile and continued singing in Gaelic. She leaned back from him, fanning the air, the fumes robbing her breath.

Ian winked. “He’s murdering the Gaelic, lass, but he’s a damn fine baritone.”

B.A. heard the unspoken words:
He’s trying, which is more than Evian had
. “Mist Covered Mountains” was a favorite of hers. Her heart squeezed at Desmond’s attempt to learn.

“You’re drunk,” she snapped, hiding her smile.

Desmond chuckled. “Me too.”

With a sweep of her arm, she stood aside and permitted them to haul him upstairs. She grumped to their backs, following them up the steps: “You gormless pelicans, you fed him. Stop-Breath. Doc said no alcohol. Ashamed you should be.”

They dumped him on the George III bed, Michael nearly tumbling onto it as well. “If you’re going to lash a pound of flesh from someone, blame Innis. He had to welcome the Viking prince properly.”

She leaned her head against the bedpost, smiling at the whole scene, which filled her heart. Never had Evian been drunk with her lads, not once gone to Thursday Night poker. He hadn’t bonded with these men so dear to her, closer to her than even her brothers.

Evian and the men hadn’t disliked each other; just as time passed, she grew aware they didn’t
respect
each other, though none ever spoke the words. That hurt. Privately, she’d feared Evian had fancied himself the Lord of Falgannon and her islanders his serfs. He often voiced resentment over money she spent to make lives here easier. She recognized when Evian died they shared her pain because she grieved, not due to loss of one of their own.

And Evian had never looked at the castle and seen more than a pile of rocks.

Ian patted her arm. “Get him settled, lass. We’ll see ourselves out.”

Michael kissed her cheek. “He’s a fine braw lad, this one. Damn fine poker player.”

“Got green eyes, too.” Callum grinned.” ‘Night, lass.”

“‘Night, pelicans.” Tears filled her eyes as she watched them file out of the room. B.A. put the back of her hand to her mouth to muffle the sob. Sucking in emotions on a deep breath, she turned to Des. “Time to roll the drunk Viking-who-isn’t-a-Viking off his stomach. Des, help me get your pants off.”

“Lass, I’ve waited to hear you say those words to me since I looked into those gold eyes.”

With a panther’s grace and strength, he suddenly sprang at her, taking hold of her shoulders. So solid of muscle, he nearly pulled her off her feet. They rocked for a moment, him breathing fumes strong enough to knock her out.

“Whew, secondhand drunk!” B.A. leaned back gasping for air, but he tumbled her to the bed and under him in a deft move for a man totally foxed. She reveled in the weight of his body pressing hers into the mattress.

Dudley hopped up on the bed and poked his nose against her cheek. “Silly, beastie. Here, let’s get your party hat off. Des, why is he wearing your Rolex?”

Desmond glanced sleepily at Dudley. “He won it. A mean poker-player Kitty is.”

Her emotion burst out in laughter, the kind that tends to sweep away the cobwebbed corners of the heart and soul. Desmond traced her lower lip with his index finger.

“You’ve a nice laugh, BarbaraAnne Montgomerie. You should use it more.”

Dudley insinuated himself between them, licking her forehead, which set Desmond to sharing her chuckles. She realized she hadn’t heard his laughter either. “You have a nice laugh, Desmond Mershan. Use it more.”

“Feed me fifty-two-year-old paint thinner regularly, I might.” He rolled onto his back beside her. “Whoa, there are two Dudleys.”

That’s the Stop-Breath. Only one Kitty, thankfully. The island couldn’t handle two.” Seeing his lids drift lower, B.A. got up on her knees to undress him. “Let’s get you tucked up, then you can kip. Idiot cat, come here so I can take off the watch.” She made a grab at Dudley intending to remove it.

Desmond yawned. “Let him wear it. He won it fair and square—didn’t you, Dudley, my man? The lock’s unsnapped so it’s loose enough on his neck.”

“He might break it.”

“I’ll sue Rolex if he does. Guaranteed to take a licking and keep on ticking.” He pushed up on his elbow, his expression intent, probing, “Do you?”

“Do I what?” she asked breathlessly.

Take a licking”—he levered higher to brush a soft kiss against her lips—“and keep on ticking.”

Her heart rolled over with a thud. “Um… I wasn’t aware I ticked. Besides, I think that campaign belongs to Timex—maybe’s a David Ogilvy slogan.”

“Want to find out if you tick?” He breathed against her neck, setting legions of goosebumps scurrying across her oversensitive skin.

Oh, boy, does she,
Devil B.A. screamed, frustrated only B.A. heard.

“The Stop-Breath will kick in. You’ll pass out any moment.” She tried to ignore her body’s raging four-alarm fire. “Let’s get you undressed and in bed before you fall on your face. Then we’ll discuss my
ticking
.”

“Sounds fair. Eh, Dudley?” He looked about. “Where did my poker pal go?”

“To feed his cat face—with your watch I might add.”

Tugging the sweater over his head, she unbuttoned his shirt. Pushing it off those wonderful square shoulders, she fought the urge to do a little licking of her own to discover if Desmond ticked. She frowned at his new boots. “You can’t sleep in these. Des?”

“Still here… I think.”

“I’ll straddle the boot. When I do, push with your free foot.” Rolling his legs to the edge of the bed, she pulled one between hers, gripping the heel. Glancing over her shoulder, she feared he’d passed out. She didn’t want him to sleep with the boots on, concerned his ankles would swell in them. “Earth to Desmond… push.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.” He swung his leg up, nearly knocking her over. After several tries, he managed to find her rump and give a good shove.

She and the boot crashed to the soft carpet. Getting up, she straddled the left boot. Desmond found better control; instead of a nudge, his socked foot gently rubbed across her rear.

B.A. gasped in a trill, “Desmond! Push!”

“Talking dirty again?” He gave her a gentle bump before breaking into song in Gaelic. Dropping the boot, she unbuckled his belt, fighting playful octopus hands. “The woman pitched a tizzy the other night when I removed my pants, now she’s yanking them off!”

“Socks, too.”

He kept wiggling his feet, but she finally wrested them off. With a shove, she had him on his back and the duvet pulled over him. As she turned to go, he caught her arm.

“Don’t leave me.” The little-boy-lost stared at her, and it about broke her heart. “Stay. Please.”

She nodded. “Let me turn out the lights.”

Going downstairs, she pulled the drapes and flipped out the lights. As she turned to go back up, she heard a pecking at the back door. A figure in a gray hooded
manna
waited on the other side. Dudley stood against the glass, waving a paw at the newcomer.