The Last Bride in Ballymuir Page 14

  He ignored her warning with the same unblinking determination that he ignored the truth of their past. “He’s killed people, did you know that?”

  “He’s no murderer.”

  “Ripe for an easy line, aren’t you? He’s killed and who can say he won’t do it again?”

  “I can.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You’ve made a proper, decent life for yourself. And now you’re going to toss it away, aren’t you?”

  “I’m tossing nothing away!”

  “No more,” he said, then walked away, the sound of his heels on the hard road an echo of that night so long ago. He was almost back to his car when he stopped and turned to look at her, his expression flat. “I’ll be free of you now.”

  I’ll be free of you now. As if she’d somehow held him in a spell, as if by saying those words, he could undo the past and move on. She hugged herself for warmth, for comfort.

  Gerry pulled by slowly, his eyes cold and straight on, never once moving in her direction. With the gait of an ancient, Kylie got into her car and turned back toward home.

  Michael sat at an old oaken table in Jenna Fahey’s kitchen, the cookbooks he’d borrowed piled in front of him. She chatted amiably as she bustled about, never slowing from her tasks. He asked her a few questions about America, a country that had always intrigued him with its vitality and confidence. She mentioned that she was originally from Chicago.

  “So, why did you leave?” he found himself asking.

  Her smile was bright. “I’d done all the damage there a girl can do.” She looked down for a moment, then back to him. “Actually, I left to train in France. After working under a few different mentors, I decided it was time to be on my own.”

  “But in Ballymuir? It’s hardly on the beaten path.”

  “To me, it’s home,” she said. “When I landed in Ireland for the very first time, I had a sense that this is what had been missing from my life. The mountains, the green...”

  “Even the rain?”

  She laughed. “Even that. This house is where I was meant to be. I can’t think of a place with better atmosphere for a restaurant.”

  “You know,” he mused, thumbing through one of the books, “I’d always thought of cooking as some sort of genteel pastime—ladies making tea cakes and fussy desserts.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I think you chefs are a violent lot.” He held up the book. “All this talk of carcasses and skinning!”

  She laughed. “You’ve been living in your sister’s house too long. She’s turned you into a vegetarian.”

  “Not exactly, but you know I’ve never given too much thought to where those tasty cuts of meat come from.”

  “Well, if you’re weak-stomached, don’t.” Their shared laughter faded away to the sound of someone nervously clearing her throat.

  “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting anything—”

  Michael looked up to see Kylie in the kitchen doorway. “Vi had told me that I’d find you here, was all, and I—”

  He subtly pushed aside the cookbooks. No point in having the woman think he’d gone soft in the head. “You’re not interrupting anything. I was, well,” he trailed off with what he knew was a foolish grin, “taking a break.” At Kylie’s lack of an answering smile, he began to worry. “Why aren’t you to school by now? Are you not well?”

  Kylie hovered in the doorway, and the American woman moved to greet her. “You must be Kylie O’Shea. I’ve seen you at church, but you’ve usually got a little more color to you than you do right now. Come in and sit down,” she said, ushering her toward the table before Kylie could object. “Can I get you some tea?” At Kylie’s murmured assent, Jenna turned and busied herself in the kitchen.

  Michael stood and pulled out a chair next to his own. After Kylie sat, he moved close to her. Her face was drawn and her mouth had thinned to a sad curve. He wanted to hold her.

  “What happened?”

  She just shook her head.

  “Michael, I’ll leave you to finish putting the tea together,” Jenna said from the doorway. “Since it doesn’t involve skinning or carcasses, I’m sure you can handle it. Oh, and after Kylie’s feeling more, ah, energetic, why don’t you show her what you’ve been up to around here? I’m sure she’ll be as impressed as I am.”

  He nodded his thanks and turned back to Kylie. “Hang on, let me get you a bite to eat. I don’t like the way you’re looking.” Rummaging about, he found some brown bread and a pot of strawberry preserves. By the time he had that together, the water for the tea was ready and he set it to steep.

  Michael sat down again, and slathered the preserves thick on a piece of bread while he talked. “It’s not that I’m not pleased to see you, because I am. But I need to know what happened.” He handed Kylie the bread and waited for her to take a bite, then chew and swallow. “Now tell me.”

  “I called in sick. First time since I started to work there,” she added, “so I’m hoping they’ll forgive me.”

  He found it no great surprise that she’d feel guilty. She could find a way to feel remorse over the clouds in the sky.

  “And are you sick?”

  She took her time in answering. “Heartsick, I suppose.”

  “Why?”

  She ran a finger around the rim of her plate. “I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to stir things up.”

  “Judging by your appearance, things have been stirred already.”

  Her shoulders slumped even lower. “Gerry Flynn— you know, the Garda—I think he’s been following us.”

  No news there.

  “It’s not surprising,” he said calmly. “A man with a past like mine is bound to attract some attention. Don’t let it worry you, though. It’s not as if I plan to do anything wrong.”

  “I know... I know.” She paused, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth. “It’s just the thought of having eyes on me, even when I don’t know, and in my most private moments.”

  “It’s a hard thing,” he agreed, recalling how dehumanizing it had been to live that way. Something— please, God—Kylie would never experience. “But I don’t think they’ll be doing more man driving by now and again.”

  “But aren’t you angry?”

  “More resigned.” He nudged at the bread to remind her that it waited for her.

  “Well, I’m angry for you. It’s not right, the way you’re being singled out.”

  “I did that for myself over fourteen years ago. And even though I’ve been released, I hardly fall in a class with petty criminals. Jesus, I’m sorry, Kylie,” he quickly added, chagrined at how close to her heart he’d struck. “I wasn’t meaning your father.”

  “Da’s crimes were hardly petty. And it’s not Da I’m worrying about, it’s you.”

  “Don’t, then. I can take care of myself.”

  “That doesn’t stop me from caring for you,” she replied before turning to her bread.

  He poured her a cup of tea. “So that’s all that has you heartsick, then? Worry for me?”

  “That’s enough, isn’t it?” she answered after a moment, eyes focused on her cup as she stirred in a fat lump of sugar.

  It wasn’t. Not for a woman like Kylie, with her innate strength and resilience. But he wouldn’t press things, wouldn’t look any closer at this gift of her presence.

  “Spend the day with me.” he urged.

  “But your work, won’t Ms. Fahey be angry?”

  “I’ll get enough done. Stay, and I’ll teach you how to be a carpenter’s assistant.”

  “All right,” she said, and he was pleased to see that some of her color was returning. After one last bite of bread, Kylie added, “But we might be better served if I stayed here and had your employer teach me how to cook.”

  He laughed. “All too true, but I’m keeping you to myself.”

  He led her to one of the second-floor suites, which was finally taking form. The plasterers had come and done their part, leaving him with details lik
e the cove moldings and baseboards.

  Kylie smiled as she walked about, peeking in corners and admiring the view from the bank of windows overlooking the bay.

  “Pity Jenna Fahey’s not married,” she said. “This little alcove would make a perfect nursery.”

  Her expression grew dreamy. In that instant, Michael saw her with children of her own—loving, living, laughing with a vitality that made his heart turn over.

  Of all his regrets over the blows life had dealt him, perhaps the greatest was that he’d never know the joy of a child of his own. His gaze settled on Kylie. She found life difficult as the daughter of Black Johnny. How would the daughter of an even blacker soul, his soul, survive? Better not to come into the world at all than to arrive the daughter of a killer.

  He cleared his throat. Back to the present. You’ve enough to deal with already.

  “Well then, here’s what we’re to do,” he said in as level a voice as he could find. “Pick up that pad of paper and pencil over there, and I’ll call down measurements to you. We’ll rough-cut the moldings and prime them today.”

  “We’ll cut the moldings? Are you expecting me to use that beast over there?” She pointed at the table saw, with its radial arm and rigged out to be any man’s dream.

  “I’ll do the cutting, thanks, but you’re not sneaking away before the painting’s begun. Speaking of which, go look in the back of my car. You should find a shirt big enough to cover those fine clothes of yours.”

  “They’re not so fine, but they are all I have. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Make it no more, or I’ll dock your wages,” he replied with a growl.

  Kylie paused in the doorway. “I don’t want your money.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Why, whatever other favors you might be willing to give.” She finished with a wink and a suggestive little bump of her narrow hips, then flew from sight.

  It was some time before Michael worked his slack jaw shut. Soon after that, he gave in to laughter. Pure, joyous laughter.

  Kylie walked into the bedroom suite, a fine men’s dress shirt in her hands. Surely this couldn’t be the garment that Michael had sent her for. She knew little enough about men’s clothing, but recognized quality when she held it.

  “This was all I saw, and it hardly seems the thing to be painting in.”

  “It’s exactly the thing,” he said. “Vi pulled it from a box the other day, and tossed it my way. I think it must have belonged to one of her men, because she muttered something about opinionated Frenchmen. It’s too small for me, but I thought it might make good rags.”

  Kylie clutched the shirt tighter. The man was mad. “Rags?”

  “No?” he asked, obviously unimpressed by the hand-tailored work he’d discarded.

  “It’s mine now,” she announced.

  Busy running a tape measure from corner to corner in the sunny room, Michael nodded absently in response to her declaration of ownership. When he called a measurement to her, she put aside the shirt and jotted a note on the pad after confirming the number. On they went until he had all that he needed.

  He switched on the saw and began cutting pieces of wood to the lengths he’d called. Kylie would have thought he was oblivious to her, except for the quick glances she felt come her way. That, and from the warmth and contentment that filled the room, cheery as the sun itself.

  At loose ends, she picked up the shirt and tugged it on over her own proper blouse and skirt. After buttoning the cuffs, and then from top to bottom, she chuckled at the whimsical picture she made, elegant business layered over frayed schoolteacher.

  Looking down, Kylie frowned. Her dark-blue wool skirt still peeked from the bottom of the oversized shirt. Much as she hated the skirt, she would even more if it were dotted with paint. It had to go. Glancing at Michael, she saw that he had his back to her. No loss of dignity if she were to just slip her hands up under the shirt, like so, and quickly unbutton and unzip the blue wool, then slide it off.

  With a last wriggle and a sigh of relief, she accomplished her task. She folded the skirt and tucked it in a relatively debris-free corner of the room. All she was showing was a little knee and only a few inches higher where the tails of the shirt cut upward. Besides, she still had her stockings and shoes on. Hardly enough to inflame a man, now was it?

  When she again looked at Michael, she saw that at one point or another he had turned to face her. Mouth agape, he stood with his hand poised in midair over the last piece of wood. Best to brazen it out, she decided.

  “I hope you don’t mind my getting rid of my skirt. The shirt didn’t quite cover it, and I’ve a feeling that I’m going to be rather sloppy.”

  His hand just hovered there as his eyes traveled from her face downward, then lingered at her knees.

  “Sloppy,” he echoed in a thick voice.

  “With the paint.” She tried not to laugh at his dumbfounded expression, rather like one who had been slipped a shot or three of whiskey in his morning tea.

  “Ah.” He stared over at his hand as if he wondered what it was doing out there. Quickly dropping it to his side, he said, “Well, I want my workers to be comfortable.”

  “I’m comfortable enough... for now,” she added, throwing a cheeky grin his way.

  The choked noise he made was everything she’d hoped for. How grand it felt to be a bit of a flirt. And a bit of a fraud, too, Kylie admitted to herself. Knowing they were well chaperoned by Jenna Fahey gave her a boldness she wouldn’t otherwise possess.

  Michael opened a paint can and began stirring. After a moment or two, he cast a considering look her way. “I’d be worried about those shoes, if I were you.”

  “My shoes?”

  “Paint thinner is hell on leather. You’d have no hope of saving the shoes if you got paint on ‘em.”

  “You think?”

  “I do,” he affirmed.

  “Well, then there’s only one thing to be done for it.” Kylie slipped out of her shoes. “But now my stockings will never survive,” she said with just a hint of a regretful sigh. “They’ll have ladders all the way up if I walk shoeless on this rough floor.”

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You think?”

  “I do. Now turn your back.”

  He did, but not without a muttered objection. And she wondered just how much he was picking up, anyway, while he faced the windows with their fine reflective qualities. She’d not deprive him of his little game. After all, he was playing so nicely with her. A little roll of the waistband downward, then some awkward tugging and she was free of her stockings. All dignity, she carried them and the shoes over to the corner to join her skirt.

  “You can look now,” she said, smiling at his own smile in the window.

  Whistling a cheery tune, he pulled two paintbrushes out of a box filled with a jumble of tools. “Ready to work?”

  She nodded, taking a brush from him.

  “Now, you don’t need a heavy hand when you paint,” Michael began directing before she’d even dipped her brush in the can. “All we’re doing is sealing off—”

  Truly the take-charge sort, she mused. And in need of a reminder that this game was being played according to her rules.

  “Oh, no,” she murmured, shaking her head ruefully at the sliver of white blouse that peeped out from beneath one shirt cuff.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My blouse,” she said gesturing at the smidgen of exposed fabric. “It’s not quite covered, and it’s my best one, too.”

  Michael’s green eyes widened and grew brighter with humor. “Are you suggesting that—” He finished the thought by waving his brush in the direction of her clothing pile.

  Kylie nodded. “It would be a shame to have anything happen to it, don’t you think?”

  “I do. Shall I turn my back?”

  She hesitated a heartbeat, then purred out her answer. “Only if you want to.”

  His mouth worked soundlessly f
or a moment, then he finished with a shaky, “I don’t.”

  For a woman with no experience in sheer brazenness, Kylie was finding she had quite a taste for it. After a dramatic pause, she slowly unbuttoned the dress shirt’s cuffs. Biting her lower lip with feigned nervousness, she brought her right hand to the top button of the shirt, toyed with it for a moment, but then shook her head and left the garment chastely buttoned. She thought she heard Michael make some sort of low growl in response.

  “This will only take a sec,” she promised, knowing the noise he’d made had nothing to do with impatience. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  Holding the shirt’s right cuff firm in her opposite hand, she tugged free, then did the same for the other arm. Now she wore it rather like a tent buttoned around her, with her arms able to move beneath its protection. Safely covered, she set to work on her blouse.

  Kylie allowed her eyes to meet Michael’s. Humming a merry tune of her own, she quickly unbuttoned the blouse, slipped it off, and let it drop from beneath the shirt and onto the floor. All the while she reveled in the parade of emotions crossing his face: surprise, frustration, and finally, what looked to be amused respect.

  She scarcely had her arms back through the dress shirt’s sleeves before he hauled her up against his hard, warm body.

  “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

  She had no chance to agree. All hot persuasion, his mouth settled over hers. Here, drawing up on tiptoe, snuggling in closer, wrapping herself around him, Kylie was just where she wanted to be. Lord, he tasted dangerous. Forbidden. Perfect.

  Breaking the kiss to send his mouth on a fiery trail over one cheek, against her jaw, and finally to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, he murmured words of praise and encouragement. Not that the desire singing inside her needed any prompting.

  Slipping under the fabric of the shirt, he cupped her bottom with his big hands, lifting her. She moaned with pleasure.

  “Silky,” he said before bringing his lips to hers again, and she knew that he wasn’t referring to her plain cotton undies, but to the skin beneath them that he stroked with his thumbs.

  Kylie’s head whirled with the wonderful decadence of the moment. The taste of Michael, the feel of the sun shining through the windows on them, and her with nothing more than a shirt to cover her. It was the wildest thing she’d ever done.