The Last Bride in Ballymuir Page 2

  “Thank you,” he said in a deep voice that had her ducking her head closer to the sink to hide the blush she felt sliding across her features. In the minutes that he was in the other room, she hurriedly dug in her purse for a brush and ran it through her hair, wondering how she looked, and wondering why after all these years vanity chose now to show itself.

  Her appearance had never bothered her before. In fact, she was thankful she wasn’t the sort to draw attention. Brown wren Kylie, safe from the predators of the world. She scrubbed her face, washed her hands again, then told herself to calm down. By the time he returned, she stood placidly at the stove.

  He nodded a greeting, then turned his back to her and gazed out the window. Even now he seemed wary and uncomfortable in her presence. Still, she felt a startling sort of instinctual trust. For her to have these feelings about any man was a battle of will against brutal experience.

  To trust a stranger? This was a miracle, no less. In return, she wanted to put him at ease, but had no idea how to go about it.

  Kylie gave the pot of soup one last stir. It seemed a bit stubborn at the bottom. She leaned closer to the soup and sniffed suspiciously. She prayed she hadn’t scorched it, though scorched soup seemed a proper mate to the rather too crusty bread she’d baked that morning.

  He still stood at the window.

  “Are you wondering what it is I do up here?” she asked, putting a smile in her voice.

  He turned, and her pulse danced and skittered. Beautiful he was, in an entirely male way. His black hair was shorter than many men wore it, but it did nothing to detract from his appearance. Little could. All dark and big with green eyes that seemed to see into the comers of her mind, the man was a medieval maiden’s fantasy landed in the wrong world. If he hadn’t seemed even more uncomfortable than she, Kylie would have found him intimidating.

  “You’re no farmer,” he said.

  Kylie gave an apologetic sigh as she ladled out the soup. “Nor a chef, either.” Putting a bowl at the place she’d set for him, she said, “I’m a primary teacher at Gaelscoil Pearse—one of the local All-Irish schools. An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?”

  A smile, almost too brief to be seen, passed across his face. “I speak a word or two, but none that I’ll be trotting out for an expert like you. And now you’re teaching it to the young? It’s a grand thing you’re doing.”

  She felt her face color at the compliment; she received them so painfully seldom. Kylie smiled her thanks. “Milk? It’s fresh this morning.” At his “please,” she busied herself pulling two clean glasses from the shelf and the milk from her small refrigerator.

  The milk, at least, would be right. The bread was another issue. On her pay, store bought was an impossibility. Home-baked, on the other hand, was a punishment. She sawed frantically at the loaf, wishing not for the first time that she’d had a mother long enough to teach her these basic things. With luck, Michael Kilbride had a forgiving nature because he’d have much to forgive after this meal.

  They sat together at her plain wooden table— scarcely big enough for one. Between swallows of overcooked soup and nibbles of bread drier than the Sahara, Kylie struggled to maintain her end of a weak conversation.

  “So are you visiting the O’Hallorans or Mrs. Flaherty?” she asked, referring to the only neighbors within walking distance.

  After washing down bread with a healthy swallow of milk, he said, “No, I’m staying with my sister, Vi.”

  Kylie immediately made the connection, and was relieved to have at least found a topic to settle on. “Vi Kilbride, the artist? She’s fabulous!”

  He looked amused at her enthusiasm. “Lately I’ve been thinking of her more as Vi Kilbride, the harpy. And even when she’s not set on making my life miserable, I see her as a little sister, not an artist. But you know her work, then?”

  “I do, though I can’t afford it. I didn’t know she lived close by.”

  ‘‘Down the road in Ballymuir.”

  She set down her spoon and gave up any pretense of eating. “That’s easily six miles off!”

  “Is it?” He took another spoonful of the soup. Kylie thought he did a creditable job of hiding a wince. It didn’t seem right to be torturing her guest like this.

  “Yes, and don’t be eating that on my account. It seems to have burnt while we were out working.”

  He was polite enough to look surprised. “So the smoked flavor wasn’t intended?”

  She laughed. “Not exactly.”

  “It was the best meal I’ve had in some time, Kylie O’Shea.”

  She liked the way her name slipped from his lips, and liked his kindness, too. “If this is the best, where have you been dining—on a desert island?”

  He gave a slight shrug. “Something like that.” Glancing out the window he said, “It’s time for me to be home.”

  “You’re walking.” She pushed back from the table and stood. “Let me run you back to town. It’s the least I can do after making you haul rocks, then trying to poison you for your effort.”

  He stood. “I like the walking.”

  She wasn’t ready to let go, to slip back into the careful, colorless discipline of her life. It wasn’t every day—or any other day at all—that brought a man like Michael Kilbride to her door. She’d take these moments and keep them to brighten the lonely times. “I’ll drive... I insist.”

  He gazed down at her, his raised brows seeming to point out the absurdity of her words. She’d sooner be able to stop the rain from falling than this man from doing what he wished.

  “Then I accept,” he said.

  Time passed all too quickly as she tidied the kitchen, then led Michael out to her relic of a car. Evening had begun to approach. Kylie smiled as she noted the sky’s whisper of indigo meeting the orange of the setting sun.

  As she drove the miles toward town, she wondered about a man who would walk this far on a day chilly enough to be best spent by a fire. She glanced over at him and felt the heat of his green gaze—hungry, yet hesitant. She knew those feelings well. Especially the hesitancy.

  Hoping to defuse the strange sort of tension that seemed to be filling the car, Kylie resorted to chat about sports—the sort of things she thought a man might take to. Not Michael Kilbride. Though his answers were polite enough, he paid little attention. In fact, the unspoken conversation rang louder than the spoken. He watched her as he had earlier, and though Kylie was scared witless, she welcomed his gaze.

  When he pointed out his sister’s house, urgency joined the tension. Kylie struggled for a half-veiled hint that she’d like to see him again. Unable to come up with one, she pulled to the side of the road. She reached out her hand to shake his. “It’s been a pleasure, Michael Kilbride.”

  He grasped her hand, but instead of shaking it, pulled her forward. Kylie could feel her eyes widen as he neared. Before she could even form the thought to object, his mouth settled hot and hungry over hers. She was a woman who’d been kissed neither well nor often, yet she could recognize passion beginning to dance beneath her skin. Kylie shivered. Wanting to know more, but half-fearing the power of what she might learn, she settled her hand on his shoulder, her fingers gripping the coarse fabric of his jacket.

  He drew her closer, and she felt her mouth open to him. The sweep of his tongue was an intimacy so different from those long-ago clumsy, teenage kisses that were all she had to compare to this moment. As she learned the taste of him, the beat of his heart, she began to lose her sense of self, something she generally clung to as tightly as her dignity. The realization shocked her.

  At her indrawn breath, Michael let her go. Kylie fell back against her seat. When she looked at him, she would have been hard-pressed to say who was more startled by the kiss—Michael or herself.

  Kylie scrambled for words, but Michael Kilbride left the car without saying anything at all. After he was gone, a breathy “wow” was all she could manage.

  She was in well over her head. What better time to learn to swim?
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br />   Chapter Two

  If you hit my dog, you hit myself.

  —Irish Proverb

  Michael had no sooner shut the door than Vi closed in on him. “It’s past six. Where have you been?”

  Feeling as churlish as a teenager late home with Mam hovering over him, he snarled, “Out.”

  “You leave walking and come back in a woman’s car. Interesting, that.”

  “I don’t believe it. You were watching me out the window!” He advanced on his meddling sister, but stumbled on a fat little dog that seemed to have materialized from nowhere. Glaring down at the homely thing, which was more or less a stumpy second cousin to a Jack Russell terrier, he added, “And what the hell is this?”

  “This is Roger, the only male I’ve yet to meet with sense enough to take care of himself.” Vi reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. The animal heaved a blissful sigh and sidled closer to his owner. “He stayed with friends while I was gathering you home. He’s a fair dog, Rog is. Stay out of his chair by the fire and you’ll get along well enough.”

  “More than I can say for us. I won’t be spied on!”

  She stood toe to toe with him. “You think that I was spying on you?” One finger jabbing toward the front of the room, she said, “I just happened to glance out that window when I heard the car. Can you blame me for looking twice with the show you were putting on? Make friends fast, do you?”

  “She’s not a friend.” At Vi’s astonished laugh he added, “Exactly.”

  “And I’d say she wasn’t behaving like an enemy—exactly. Who was the little thing? I was thanking God I didn’t see auburn hair or I’d think that bit of trash Evie Nolan had latched onto you.”

  He put aside the interesting concept of being “latched onto” for later consideration. “Her name’s Kylie O’Shea. Do you know of her?”

  Vi smiled. “Around here, you know a little of everyone. Whether what you know has anything to do with the truth, that’s another matter.” Pulling a stool away from the counter that divided kitchen from living room, she sat. “But Kylie O’Shea? She’s Black Johnny O’Shea’s only child, that I know for sure.”

  “Black Johnny O’Shea.” Michael grinned at the antiquated image the name conjured. “And what does he do, rob Bus Eireann every time it rolls through town?”

  Instead of laughing, Vi took the question seriously. “Well, I wasn’t here when Black Johnny was about, but I’ve heard he was a grand schemer, and a thief, too. He’s in prison now—a safe place for him, considering what his name means around here.”

  She’d intended no jab with those words. But as a man whose name held meaning itself, Michael felt the blow. All the more reason to avoid Kylie O’Shea. He doubted that she held a soft spot in her heart for ex-convicts, any more than his own family did. He mumbled some indecipherable response.

  Vi tapped a long finger to her lower lip as if contemplating a matter of great import. “That Kylie, I’ve heard she’s as proper as a nun. And if there’s a committee to be formed or a charity in need of a hand, she’s in the thick of it. Imagine, there she was kissing you for God and all the world to see when she’s not known you for more than a few hours. I don’t like this, Michael, not at all.”

  Prepared to launch into an abject apology for soiling the reputation of Kylie O’Shea, Michael stammered to a stop when Vi went on. “There’s something afoot with that girl,” she said with a stern frown. “You’d best be staying away from her.”

  She’d knocked him wordless with that. He neither wanted nor deserved his sister’s protection. And while Vi had never been the delicate flower for which she was named, he didn’t recall her being this intractable, either. Michael wasn’t certain what to say.

  Vi stood and walked to the peg rack by the front door. She pulled down a ridiculous looking orange-and-green braided leash and snapped it to Roger’s collar.

  “Be a love, and take Rog for a walk. He needs his fresh air. I’ll have soup on the table by the time you get back.”

  Soup. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what was it with women and their soup? He’d sell the family relics— if they had any other than Mam—for even a tough cut of mutton.

  Vi shoved the loop end of the leash into his hand. “Off with you.” She shooed them out the door and shut it smartly behind them.

  Michael scowled down at the little creature on the other end of the tether. It regarded him with a Zen like calm. “Come on, then,” he muttered. “This must be my day for making a bloody fool of myself.”

  Roger looked especially pleased at that thought. After sniffing the air, the dog trotted down the sidewalk and veered toward town center.

  Resigned to his fate, Michael followed behind. He kept his head down and pretended invisibility, no simple task at his size. But it was far easier to be concerned about walking this joke of a dog than to be thinking about what had happened with Kylie O’Shea.

  It was just a kiss; he knew that. From what he’d read in newspapers and witnessed firsthand in the Dublin pubs, his act was no great sin. And there was no shame in wanting a bit of fun after too many years filled with loneliness and wanting. But much as he wanted her to be, Kylie was no bit of fun.

  “A few laughs, that’s all,” he muttered, then realized that he looked exactly like one of those crazy bastards three steps short of a jig who spent the day talking to his dog. At that, Roger stopped and stared up at him.

  “I’m not looking for an answer from you” Michael said.

  Female laughter echoed from a shop doorway. “And he’ll not be giving you one.”

  She stepped out onto the walk. There was no mistaking this one for a child. The young woman was short with lush curves that were enticing enough now, but sooner or later would thicken to those of a cantilevered matron. Clearly not Kylie’s fate, Michael thought, then pushed her from his mind.

  “I’ve seen the dog before, but you—you’re new.” She eyed him much the same way Michael would a tenderloin roasted to perfection. “A friend of Vi Kilbride, are you?”

  “Her brother.”

  The woman smiled, and with a practiced flirtatious move brushed long auburn hair over her shoulders. Trouble and a blatant promise shone in her dark eyes. “Better yet.” She stepped closer. “My name’s Evie Nolan.”

  His first impulse was to laugh at the coincidence of meeting Evie on the heels of Vi’s words. Then he recalled the dozens of incidents from childhood on when Vi saw or knew things before their time. A safety net or noose, Vi was, depending on what one did with her bits of sight.

  Looking at the female in front of him, though, Michael thought it would be no hard thing at all to be “latched onto” by Evie Nolan. Then Vi’s image superimposed itself over Evie’s sharp features. Decidedly no hard thing, Evie Nolan, but no wise thing, either. He didn’t offer his name, but she didn’t slow a beat

  “I was just closing up my da’s shop and about to head down to O’Connor’s Pub. Been there yet?”

  “No, but I don’t think they’d be welcoming me with this in tow,” he said gesturing at Roger.

  “You could tie him to the lamppost,” she said, dismissing the dog with a bored glance.

  Somehow, Michael knew he’d be safer in tying Evie to a lamppost than he would Vi’s precious child. “Maybe I’ll join you another time.”

  Evie pared the general down to the specific with a skill he couldn’t help but admire. “Monday night, then. Eight o’clock... And if you’re lookin’ to have fun, leave the dog and your sister at home.”

  She moved closer and for one wild moment he imagined her doing to him what he’d done to Kylie. Had he not been so tall, Evie Nolan just might have been up to the challenge. As it was, she brushed one dagger-tipped nail against the front of his jacket. “Will I be having your name before Monday?”

  He hesitated, feeling as though he was giving up something he shouldn’t. “Michael.”

  She looked him up and down. “For the Big Fellow, Michael Collins, I’d wager.”

  With
his size and build, he’d heard the comment countless times before, and hated it. Collins, patriot and hero to some, spy and murderer to others. And to him, a burden. “I was named for my father.”

  The words must have sounded even harsher than he’d intended. A flash of surprise and anger passed across the girl’s face. She stepped away warily. “Well, Michael named for his father, Monday night, then.” She brushed past him and made her way down the narrow walk.

  He watched her round bottom sway back and forth to a hot beat. “We’ll see,” he said more to himself than her.

  Roger gave a low growl and tugged at his leash. Michael imagined that if he loosed him, the dog would sink his teeth straight into Evie Nolan’s swinging promise of sex.

  “Latched onto, all right,” he said with a laugh, then followed Rog round the corner and, after several blocks’ zigzagging detour, back home again.

  “You’re all walked out, then,” Vi commented as he swung shut the door and then freed Roger from his leash.

  “Eighty years on the road and I’d not be walked out,” he said, hanging his jacket. During his years caged, more nights than not he’d dreamt of walking in a straight line bending over the horizon and on to forever. Past this ruined life altogether, and starting again. Starting clean and simple.

  Vi was silent a while, seeing to the evening’s meal. When the table was set, she said, “I can’t imagine it... knowing I must be in the same place so long. I think it would kill me—especially when I’d done nothing to warrant being there.”

  To his way of thinking, sheer stupidity qualified as something, though he loved Vi for her unswerving loyalty. Michael’s smile was grim. “Well, the anger’s enough to keep you going a while.”

  In all her visits, all her letters, and all of his to her, they’d skirted the “whys” and “hows” of his existence. The life and the emotions were ugly, now best swept under the rug. Not the most courageous of acts, but one that better suited his skills at self-preservation.