The Last Bride in Ballymuir Page 3

  Vi waved him to his place at the table. The aroma of the soup was regrettably reminiscent of his earlier meal. Michael slowly brought the spoon to his mouth, carefully tasted, then grabbed for the glass of water in front of him. A conspiracy, it was!

  He glared at his sister. “Did no one teach you to cook?”

  “Of course they did. I got distracted, that’s all. I had the grandest idea for a new painting and had to get it down before it flew off.”

  He grinned. “The painting?”

  “No, the idea, you ninny,” she said, brandishing her soup spoon like a weapon.

  “So I’m suffering for your art. And here I thought that was the artist’s job.”

  “Do you suppose you could be doing any better?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t complain.” She nibbled at the bread before asking, “So what’ll it be, Michael? You’ve enough money for a new start wherever you want to go.”

  “I’d tell you not to ruin the meal, but it’s far too late for that.” He leaned back in his chair. “No more talk of money or the future, Vi. I’ve spent fourteen years doing what others commanded. I’ve no idea what I want to do for myself, and no idea what I can do. I need time. Time to think about it, and time to just be. Can’t you understand?”

  She sighed. “I can, it’s just I can’t bear not seeing progress made.”

  “I’m out. That’s progress, I’d say.”

  “No, that’s justice. You shouldn’t have been in there at all. You’re no terrorist and never were.”

  “Among my padmates, paramilitary was the preferred term,” he dryly corrected.

  “Call them what you will,” his sister said, unwilling to be swayed from her point. “Progress is when you can pick up and move on.”

  No arguing that. The soup best left uneaten, Michael grabbed some bread, then slid his chair back from the table. “Have you anything to read?”

  Vi pointed to shelves built into the wall next to the fireplace. “You’ll find Roddy Doyle and Joe O’Connor, as well as some poetry and a few of the classics.”

  He nodded. Making his way to the bookshelf, he said, “I’ll be seeing you in the morning, then.”

  “Mass is at nine,” Vi said in a tone that was more order than point of information. His thoughts must have been clear on his face because she continued in the same major-general tone. “It’s one morning a week I’m asking of you. And I might point out that you stand a chance of gaining something from your effort, too.”

  He raised one brow. “We still have politics to argue over. Care to give it a go?”

  Vi sat back and smiled. “We haven’t changed at all. I’m still trying to bully you and you’re still swatting me down.”

  “And you need it, sweet Violet,” he said with a broad wink, then laughed at her answering growl. No, some things hadn’t changed at all.

  By half past five the following morning, Michael was willing to concede that some less pleasant aspects of his life remained the same, too. He’d not slept ‘til past three. And even Roddy Doyle’s wit hadn’t been enough to keep his mind away from Kylie. To Kylie it went and to Kylie it stayed.

  To have felt his mouth against a woman’s for the first time in over a dozen years was surely an event grand enough to rob him of sleep. It was more than that, though. It was the rightness of her taste, the softness of her lips. It was the fleeting thoughts he’d had when their mouths met. Thoughts of days to come.

  Michael gazed at himself in the tiny square of mirror above the bathroom sink. While he shaved away a day’s growth of blue-black beard, he pondered the fact that a man who looked so—well, to be truthful—dangerous could be so damned inexperienced. A fine irony there, and one he’d bought and paid for with his own rash acts. Perhaps these feelings for Kylie O’Shea could be reduced to just that— rash acts and inexperience.

  After sluicing off the last of the shaving cream and toweling dry his face, Michael scowled at his reflection. He summed up his life in two words: “Bloody fool.”

  Downstairs by six, he took pleasure out of settling into Roger’s chair, then reading some more. An hour or so later, Vi, eyes still half-shut and red hair wild as any Medusa’s, staggered from bedroom to kitchen.

  “Kettle’s still warm,” he told her and tried to look apologetic as she jumped nearly to the low-beamed ceiling.

  Clutching closed a wild crimson silk robe that made Michael wonder whether his sister had spent time in a seraglio, Vi asked, “What are you doing up and about so early?”

  “I’ve been trained better than your dog. I expect it’ll take me some time to unlearn it all.”

  Vi said nothing in return, not that much could be said. She clattered about in the kitchen for a while, and then settled at a small desk not far from where he sat. “I’m phoning Mam—promised her I would. I need to catch her early. She’s still singing in the choir, did you know?”

  He didn’t. Michael rose. “I’ll be—”

  “No, stay. Talk to her, too, Michael. She’s worried about you. She truly is.”

  “She has an odd way of showing it.”

  Vi lifted the phone and began to dial. “Talk to her.”

  “Can’t.” As he trudged up the stairs to his room, Michael tried to recall the last time his mother and he had truly communicated. Not the bits and business of being in the same family, but real talk. Before his brothers were born, for certain. From the day they arrived, Pat and Danny had usurped what little time his mother had ever found for him. And now she used them like shields. “You’d best not come to Kilkenny,” she had said when he’d called with news of his impending release. “It would be unsettling for the boys.”

  He doubted “the boys”—now seventeen—gave a dead rat’s ass whether he came to town. Hell, they scarcely knew him; he’d been gone since they were three years old. His mother would be the one unsettled, her placid life of charity work, luncheons, and friends blown to hell. And his father, he’d do as he always had—work late, then come home to read the newspaper and avoid direct conversation with his family.

  Home ... He thought again of Kylie O’Shea and her rocks and wretched cooking, and knew he was indeed a bloody fool for doing it. He deserved no home and would have none.

  Michael glanced at the clock on the bedside table. An hour ‘til church. Perhaps a sermon filled with dire warnings of devil and death would brighten his day. God knew stranger things had happened.

  Chapter Three

  A little always tastes good.

  — Irish Proverb

  Each Sunday morning when she slipped through the plain doors of St. Brendan’s Church, Kylie carried a guilty little secret with her: she liked going to Mass not only for what she got out of it, but for being seen. Her father hadn’t been much of a churchgoer. Perhaps he stayed home out of fear of a lightning bolt striking straight to his heart, but more likely because sitting still for an hour and more was inconceivable to Johnny O’Shea. As was the concept of a Higher Authority.

  Kylie was not her father; she believed. Each Sunday was a reaffirmation of the way she tried to live her life—tried being the operative word. Last night, for instance, she’d had far too many uncomfortable and inappropriate thoughts about Michael Kilbride. And today, as she settled early in a pew, she fought not to crane her neck like a spectator at the Ballymuir Races.

  How she wanted him to be there. Coming in with Vi, as he would, there’d be no missing him. Between her height and her flame-red hair, Vi stood no more chance of being inconspicuous than Kylie did of being bold. And Michael was no man to be easily lost in a crowd, either. Even one packed into tiny St. Brendan’s. Kylie shifted as subtly as she could to increase the range of her peripheral vision.

  Breege Flaherty, who had sat next to her, reached over and patted her hand. “All morning you’ve been as nervous as an ewe come mating season. Whatever’s the problem?”

  “No problem, none at all,” she assured her friend, secretly amused and appalled at how close Breege had s
truck to the truth.

  Widowed Breege was Kylie’s closest neighbor, both in proximity and in her heart. When the rest of the town had turned from Kylie after her father’s arrest for fraud, Breege had remained steadfast. The fact that her dearest friend was eighty-two years old didn’t seem odd in the least.

  “If you’ve no problem, then slide down, dear. You’ve left people waiting in the aisle.”

  Embarrassed, Kylie glanced back up and found herself looking straight into Michael Kilbride’s unforgettably green eyes. Her heart did a low, lazy loop as she took in exactly how splendid this man was. He was wearing nothing grand—just dark trousers and a thick fisherman’s knit sweater. Ah, but he wore it well. She’d not mind looking at him ‘til time spun to a stop.

  Breege’s subtle nudge called Kylie back to her surroundings. She tugged her gaze away from Michael. Right behind him stood his sister looking none too pleased to be biding her time in the aisle. Kylie hastily moved closer to Breege, making room for the two Kilbrides. After giving what she hoped passed for a polite smile rather than the half-hysterical grin she felt painting its way across her face, she focused on the service about to begin. For a few brief minutes she even succeeded.

  But inches away sat Michael Kilbride, seeming almost oblivious to her presence. The less he noticed her, the more she did him. Or so it seemed to Kylie, who had begun to hear only his deep voice as he sang, his steady responses. A crowd of hundreds and she had reduced it to one. Not once, though, did he glance her way. By neither word nor gesture was he anything other than impersonal. In fact, his disregard seemed to wave itself like a flag of challenge.

  Lately, she had fixed upon the idea of committing an act so wild and unexpected that for a short while it would lift the weight of respectability from her. And for that short while, she could sink her teeth into life—not be proper on the exterior, ready to shatter inside, Miss Kylie Soon-to-be-a-Saint O’Shea.

  Here and now—in the middle of church—she’d like to shake Michael Kilbride by his broad shoulders and hiss, “Have you forgotten me already? Did that kiss mean nothing to you?” Sanity kept her in her seat. It was a blessing, too, considering Vi Kilbride’s watchful gaze was upon her almost as much as hers was on Michael.

  By the end of mass, Kylie had herself firmly convinced that the man didn’t even recognize her. And though she told herself she should be relieved, that he was far too rough and masculine for her to handle, she was sure her heart would break.

  When Breege stopped to chat with a group of friends, Kylie kept her head down. She didn’t know where Michael Kilbride was, and didn’t want to. She’d not embarrass herself further. At least now her humiliation was a private thing. When Breege announced that she’d be staying in town for supper with Mrs. McCafferty, relieved, Kylie turned heel and fled.

  With Vi’s hand firmly anchored in the crook of his elbow, Michael saw no way of polite escape. He’d been trotted past half the citizens of Ballymuir and the other half appeared to be queuing up for their turn. All except Kylie O’Shea, who’d skirted the throng and stood with a group of women near the edge of the car park. And now it looked as though she was leaving.

  Michael tried to shake free his arm, but Vi held fast. “Michael, I’d like you to meet Jenna Fahey. She’s a grand friend of mine, for all that she’s another blow-in Yank come to buy up our land. Jenna’s opened a restaurant out Slea Head Road.”

  “Hello,” he managed without turning his gaze from the spot where Kylie had been. Then the heel of Vi’s shoe came down in the middle of his foot. In deference to their location near the church steps, he bit back the oath that came to his lips. Settling for a meaningful glare at Vi, he turned his attention to the woman in front of him. She was a small thing, willowy with short chestnut curls framing a friendly face.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said in a voice so crisp and American that he had to smile. “I’d love it if you and Vi could come to Muir House for dinner some night soon. I’ll make something special.”

  “That would be grand,” Michael answered out of politeness, then glanced back over the crowd to see if he could spot Kylie.

  The American followed his line of vision and smiled. “If you’re looking for Kylie O’Shea, she’s already gone.”

  “How’d you know who I was looking for?” Michael asked, carefully reappraising the slight woman in front of him.

  “Don’t confuse me with your mind-reading sister. No second sight here,” she said, raising a cautionary hand. She gestured toward the women still at the edge of the car park. “Kylie was the only one there less than eighty years old, and besides, what man in his right mind wouldn’t be looking at someone that pretty?”

  “Ah,” Michael said with a returning grin, “then you’ll be understanding if I move quickly to catch her.” Prying loose his sister’s hand, he said, “I need your car, Vi.”

  Her mouth curved into a complacent smile. “Buy your own car, love.”

  Michael frowned. “Blackmail, is it?”

  “Whatever works.”

  Blackmail deserved no honesty. He’d give his sister the words she wanted and save the truth for later. After he’d seen Kylie O’Shea. “Fine, we’ll open an account tomorrow, and I’ll buy my own car. But right now, Sis, give me yours.”

  Vi dangled the keys in front of him, jingling them so they sang a cheery, tempting tune. “No dancing around me with half-truths on this one, Michael. I’ll have your word. You’ll take the money—all of it.”

  Even after the years apart, she knew him well. But then again, taking the money and spending it were two distinct matters. He could promise one without doing the other.

  “You have my word,” he replied, using just the right measure of defeated frustration. Vi tossed him the keys. Michael caught them with a victorious laugh.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said to Jenna Fahey as he backed away, “And I’ll take you up on that dinner soon—before sweet Violet, there, starves me to death.”

  Her appreciative laughter rang over his sister’s less hospitable response. Michael chuckled to himself as he jogged to Vi’s car. He’d have hell to pay when he returned to her house tonight. Fitting, though, since he had a wee bit of hell to pay this afternoon, as well.

  The miles to Kylie O’Shea’s couldn’t have seemed longer. Michael immediately learned that it was one thing to commandeer Vi’s car, but another to drive it. He was thankful that this time of year he stood little chance of running into a poor sod of a tourist who’d strayed to the wrong side of the road. It was struggle enough to keep true to the curves and hills without hopelessly grinding the car’s gears.

  Rounding the last torturous bend before the little track to Kylie’s home, for the first time he asked himself what exactly he was doing. He owed her an apology, perhaps two. That much was certain. Yet he wasn’t truly sorry for the kiss—shocked that he’d done it, and a bit mystified, too. But sorry? No, he was too selfish to feel regret. All he could bear to give was an excuse. The honest truth was that the sight of her took away his good sense and what few words he’d ever been able to string together. And he expected this meeting to be no different.

  As she had been the day before, Kylie was at work in her field. Knowing no one else would come their way, Michael parked the car in the middle of the track and climbed out. Since his Sunday best and his everyday were one and the same, he didn’t hesitate before joining her.

  She had changed from the simple blue dress she’d worn to church. The oversized sweater he’d seen yesterday hung to her fingertips. Her long, slender legs were now covered by khaki-colored trousers tucked into muddied black wellies. Her hair, though, was the same as it had been in the too close confines of St. Brendan’s. She wore it pulled back from her face in a neatly woven style he vaguely recalled the girls all those years ago saying was a French braid.

  Whatever the name, he’d sat through Mass with his fingers burning to loosen the strands of the plait, to feel its silken length. Because h
e knew he wasn’t beyond temptation—he’d proven that well enough the night before—he’d pretended that Kylie O’Shea wasn’t there at all. And hurt her by it, he knew.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She murmured a greeting in reply but never stopped working. He had wondered whether she would make this easy on him. Now he had his answer.

  “Fine day to finish clearing the field,” he offered as he fell in step next to her.

  She spared him a chilly glance from under her lashes. Filling her arms with jagged rocks, she stalked off to the fence and began setting in her load. Torn between frustration and the sure knowledge he was getting a warmer reception than he deserved, Michael stood and watched her for a moment. Then with a shake of his head, he bent down and jimmied a large rock free of the earth. Using hands and the occasional foot, he rolled it in a zigzagging path to the fence. And all the while he considered his next move. Honesty seemed the only way out.

  She still stood at the low line of fence, scowling at it as if by sheer force of will she could make it grow. Michael moved behind her, wanting to rest his hands on her slender shoulders but not daring to touch her. Not deserving to.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She swung round to face him. A hot flame danced in those cool blue eyes, making him realize that his sister wasn’t alone in the ranks of warrior.

  “Sorry for what?”

  Jamming his hands deep into his pockets he muttered, “For kissing you. It was wrong of me... stupid. I should have warned you... or something.”

  “Kissing me? You’re sorry for that? There’s nothing else you’ve done that you think might be worth an apology?”

  A recitation of that list would stretch long past sunset, not that the woman in front of him looked inclined to let him slip in a word.

  “Well, I’ll admit the kiss was unexpected,” she said. “And not invited, either. But I want you to take a look at me.”