The Last Bride in Ballymuir Read online

The comment was casual and not especially notable considering what they were to begin. Still, there was the other unspoken link they shared. Another reason Vi might want to spend time with her. And if she didn’t raise it, Kylie knew she’d never feel truly comfortable around this woman.

  “About your brother,” she began.

  Vi raised a hand, palm outward. “I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that what’s between the two of you is none of my business. And while I’m of a different opinion, he’s an adult, and so are you.”

  Just as Kylie felt the tension begin to seep out of her, Vi’s gaze grew challenging. “But since you raised the subject, I will tell you this. Michael’s not the hard man he likes to appear. He’s suffered his share and more of pain and betrayal. And if anyone should hurt him again,” Vi said in a low, fierce voice, “they’ll be answering to me.”

  Courage, Kylie reminded herself. She met Vi’s gaze with a steady calm. “You’re right. Michael and I are both adults and able to care for ourselves. And you’re getting ahead of yourself, thinking that we have anything more than the beginnings of a friendship. I can’t fault you for loving him, but he doesn’t need your protection.”

  “He needs it more than you know.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Kylie asked.

  “I’ve said all I’m going to. Whatever you want to know about my brother, you’ll have to ask him.” Vi turned to a small loom sitting on a table. “Now I have to be getting back to work. Call me when you have the project schedule approved.”

  Dismissed. The Kilbride family certainly knew how to end a conversation when they chose to. If she weren’t so annoyed, Kylie might have been amused by Vi’s high-handed tactics.

  “Fine then.” Noticing for the first time a bouquet similar to the one she’d received from Michael, she added, “And if you don’t consider it meddling, tell your brother I thank him for my flowers. Oh, and tell him that Gerry Flynn has no spine at all.”

  Vi’s head shot up. “Gerry Flynn? Michael was talking to Gerry Flynn? What about?”

  “I’d be asking your brother,” Kylie finished, then swept out of the studio. O’Sheas were known for liking the last word, too.

  All the way home, Kylie thought of Michael. With each bend in the road she looked for him, hoping she’d see him, his long stride covering the ground. She didn’t, though. The road was empty, its stony gray color met by that of a rain-heavy sky.

  She stopped to check in on Breege, and found her cooking a supper of lamb stew. Not ready to face her empty house, Kylie accepted Breege’s offer of a meal. They chatted about town events, then after a while fell silent and listened to the drumming of the rain on the slate roof.

  Breege sighed and shifted in her chair. “It settles in my bones, this weather. Reminds me that I’m no longer a girl.” She smiled, showing teeth still even and white. “Though I had promised Edna McCafferty I’d meet her for the sessiun at O’Connor’s tonight. I’ll not let a few aches stop me from enjoying good music and company.”

  Frowning, Kylie glanced at the window; it was sheeted with rain blowing straight at the house. This was no night for Breege to travel alone, not that she’d take kindly to such an observation.

  “I’d been planning to go to the pub, too,” Kylie announced in a bright voice. She glanced down at her long skirt and prim white blouse. More suited to a convent than a pub. “I’ll just stop home to change.”

  The furrows in Breege’s forehead grew deeper with her broad grin. “The pub? You? How grand! I’ve not seen you in there once in all the time I’ve known you. And I’ve spent too many nights worrying that if you don’t get yourself out for the young men to admire, you’ll end up being the last bride in Ballymuir.”

  “I’ll be having a pint, Breege, not a husband,” Kylie corrected as she stood and gathered the plates and cutlery to take to the kitchen.

  Breege followed. “We’ll see what you say after we get the pint in you. I’m betting that later tonight, I’ll be making some lace for your veil.”

  It was Kylie’s turn to laugh. “Now you’re making lace? I’ve never even seen you knit!”

  “For your wedding, darlin’, I’d plant the mulberries to feed the worms to get my silken thread. And then I’d learn to tat the lace.”

  Kylie chuckled, then added the last line of their newfound poem. “And so the last bride shall wed.”

  A church. Of all the places Michael thought he might find himself twice within two days, a church was the last. Yet he’d walked empty roads and gained no peace, then gone home to find that the comfort of his sister was also missing. What was left to him but church? Nothing, he thought, pulling open St. Brendan’s weathered door.

  Feeling it would be impolite to do otherwise, he glanced away from the few people in line at the confessional. He genuflected before settling in the last pew, amazed that even that vestige of religion lingered somewhere in him. Once seated, he stared up at the empty altar, meditating on the question that stretched to the end of his life: What next?

  Michael knew the Garda’s hostility this afternoon had been a paltry offering compared to what might have been delivered. In the eyes of the local authorities, he remained a guilty man—and one who bore watching, with unrest always just beneath the surface in the North. He understood this, though he’d damned well never accept it. And he’d never stop hating the people who had trapped, then betrayed him.

  Even the dim light and serious quiet of his current surroundings weren’t enough to calm his internal clamor for revenge. Or the guilt that sickened him.

  Revenge. It sounded a sweet word, a lover’s word, with its sigh of satisfaction purling off the end. He didn’t want to feel this way, so hungry for it that he could howl. And he didn’t know how to kill off the need.

  Michael stood and walked to the end of the confessional line. While he waited his turn, he told himself that this was useless. Absurd. But he didn’t leave. The little closet he soon entered probably had stood through the murders of rulers, rebels, and innocents. He knelt, conscious of the cramped space and of his own doubts and fears.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been ...” He hesitated, counting back the years to the last time his mam had dragged him spitting and swearing to confession. “It’s been twenty years since my last confession, and whatever else I’m supposed to be saying after this, I just don’t remember.”

  “Well, twenty years is a long time gone. I suppose I’d be forgetting a few things, too,” the voice the other side of the screen said. Michael knew it was Father Cready. Vi had said he was the only priest in town. “What brings you here, now?”

  Brian Rourke, he almost answered. But saying the name would be putting a face on his target, renaming Satan. “I’ve been thinking about revenge,” he said instead. “About how good it would feel to just once even the score, to kill someone who has killed. Someone who has destroyed me.”

  The priest paused before speaking. “Even in the twenty years you haven’t been visiting, that rule hasn’t changed.”

  Michael scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, I didn’t expect it had. Look, I don’t know what I’m doing here, except that I need to find some way to ... God, I don’t know. To get to tomorrow and the day after that without wanting to hunt a man down and take what he owes me,” he finished in a rush.

  “And if you do? Will that bring you peace?”

  He closed his eyes and thought hard a few moments before answering. “No.”

  “Perhaps you should be visiting us a bit more often. You’re not alone, son.”

  But he was. He was so horribly alone that he thought he might die. And the idea didn’t frighten him as it should. Without saying another word, he escaped the confessional and the church.

  Michael ended up in O’Connor’s, intent on getting drunk. It seemed, though, he was failing at even that. Shoving aside his empty whiskey glass and lighting a cigarette, he looked around. Far too fine a place for a man like him. He’d have preferred one of those ill-li
t pubs with the dank smell of stale beer soaked into dirty carpets. But he’d landed here, and once the first drink was down, had lost the will to move on. Besides, after cutting off early attempts at chat, he had been left alone.

  He jiggled his glass at the bartender. “Another.”

  “It’s getting near to supper,” the man said, neatly ignoring the demand.

  Michael drew in on his cigarette; the smoke burned less now that he’d worked his way through half a pack. The television chattered in the background, and the bartender moved to joke with a group of men at the other end of the long counter.

  “Bookmaker’s sandwich, chips ... and another,” he said in a loud voice, edging the glass closer to the inward lip of the bar.

  The bartender came back with a cup of coffee. “Drink this, have your food, then we’ll get to the other.”

  Michael finished his cigarette, stubbing it into a black plastic ashtray with an advertisement for some beer on its sooty face.

  “Pint of Guinness, Rory,” a woman’s voice called from the door.

  Michael watched in the mirror as Evie Nolan fluffed her fingers through damp auburn hair and tugged at a clinging dress that seemed to have started an inevitable climb upward. He knew the instant she spotted him; the predatory gleam in her eyes cut through his numbness. They watched each other in the mirror as she approached.

  “Well, you’re here early,” Evie said, pulling a bar stool so close to his that they touched. At his blank expression, her eyes grew harder. “You were to meet me here, remember?”

  He did. Now. The bartender set a platter of food in front of him, the greasy scent of the chips tickling his nose.

  “The pint, Rory,” Evie snapped as the man turned away.

  “It’s settling out, same as always.”

  Amused, Michael watched as the man slowed his pace to a snail’s on the way back to the taps. After bolting down a bite of the thick sandwich, he asked Evie, “‘Meeting friends tonight?”

  Her glance flicked over him. “Just one.”

  She ordered food and they ate without much talk between them. At one point or another, his whiskey glass was refilled and quickly emptied. Time passed but his mood stayed as dark as ever. Eventually they played a few games of darts, came back, and drank some more.

  Michael’s concentration began to slip. The pub was starting to fill, but it wasn’t just the noise and laughter rising. Evie’s hand kept traveling insidiously up his thigh. With unwelcome results, too. He frowned at her and she gave a smile as content as a cat with cream. She’d probably been teasing men since she’d first popped breasts. He knew it—hated it—yet parts of him didn’t care. Not one damn bit.

  “I want to dance,” Evie said, leaning closer. Even over the thin whitish curl of his cigarette smoke he could smell her cloying perfume.

  “There’s no music.”

  She stood and tugged him off his stool. “Doesn’t matter.”

  He supposed it didn’t, and if this small thing would make her settle down and leave him be, he was all for it. But then she towed him to the long, narrow hallway between the men’s and women’s washrooms.

  “Here?” he asked giving a dubious glance at the close quarters.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, Evie launched herself against him. Unprepared, Michael staggered back against the wood paneled wall. As her mouth anchored over his, he discovered that he hadn’t managed to drown his sense of discretion, either. He reached back to untwine her hands from his neck, and wrenched his mouth free at the same time.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not wanting this,” Evie said nudging her breasts up against him.

  He clamped his hands around her upper arms and tried to fend her off. He’d have better luck holding an eel. “There’s wanting, and then there’s doing.”

  She worked her way in closer. “Then you do the wanting, and I’ll take care of the doing.”

  Persistent, she was, and too busy with her seeking hands and attitude. But he’d been raised never to insult a woman. “That’s a fine offer, but—”

  He was cut off by the sound of someone clearing her throat with loud intent. He glanced up and saw Vi bearing down on him. Inconsistent as it was, he was delighted to have her come tidy up this bad moment for him. He wasn’t drunk, but he was staggering tired.

  Giving the clinging Evie a scathing glance, Vi said to him, “You might think of having that removed.”

  “I’ve been trying to. Stubborn, though.”

  “This isn’t a laughing matter.”

  “There you’re wrong, sweet Vi,” he said. Miss Nolan was laughable indeed when measured against the rest of his woes. He unreeled Evie and patted her on her round bum. “Go on. Time for a family meeting.”

  With a toss of her head, Evie sniffed, “I don’t like being treated this way.”

  “Then you’d best learn to behave, yourself,” Vi chided her. “Now run along, Evie, before you make me lose my patience.”

  Evie spared Michael one last pouting face, then sulked her way back to the front room.

  Michael leaned against the wall to let a woman edge by on her way to the loo. He gave his sister a long, curious look. “Not that I don’t appreciate being rescued, but what are you doing here? I thought we’d agreed no spying.”

  “I’m not spying, you big oaf. I come an hour or two most Monday nights for the sessiun. Though why is it when you’re left to your own devices, I always find you with a woman in your arms?”

  “The Kilbride charm?” At her frustrated hiss, he came as close to laughing as he had since the Garda’s visit. “No?” he asked. “But I have to point out that I was in Evie’s arms, and not the other way around.”

  “Whoever was doing the holding, have a care.” Vi glanced back up the hallway. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m hiding back here with you. Tell me what went on with Gerry Flynn—the Garda—today.”

  “How’d you know about that, with you not spying on me?”

  Vi waved aside the question. “Kylie O’Shea, but we haven’t time to discuss that right now. Flynn, what happened with him?”

  “Just a friendly greeting,” Michael said with a bitter turn of his mouth. “Let me know they’d be keeping an eye on me.”

  Vi gave another glance up the hallway. Slowly the message came to Michael that she was nervous about something.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Flynn walked in the door the same time I did. If you were anyone other than a Kilbride, I’d suggest that you be on your way now, but I know better than to commit that sin. Just be careful, Michael. He’s not been with the Gardai long, and is arrogant with power.”

  Masking the fury—and the guilt—that his life had come to this again, Michael shrugged. “He’s got no power over me. I just want to finish my drink and leave.”

  “I’d rather you left now,” she said, her love for him plain in her eyes. “No good can come of this.”

  “Don’t you see? If I’m to cower every time Flynn comes around, I’d just as well go stick myself back in that cell. Now meet with your friends, and if you’re of a mind to do anything for me, sing me a song. It’s been years since I’ve heard you.”

  Vi went up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss against his cheek. “You smell of whiskey and cigarettes,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She leaned closer, then with a disgusted little sound stepped back. “And Evie Nolan, too. Even a walk home in the rain won’t wash that away.”

  “And those are the lesser of my sins today,” he joked in a half-hearted manner.

  “Then don’t tell me about the rest,” his sister ordered.

  Michael followed Vi back to the pub’s main room. The local musicians had drawn themselves into a circle just beneath the half-curtained front windows. Elderly women with their hair fussed and lacquered sat shoulder-to-shoulder with plain-faced farmers. The serious musicians sat head down tuning their instruments. The more congenial laughed with their mates.

  Nowhere did Michael see Flynn, though today he’d f
ocused more on the uniform than the face. Evie was easier to find; she waited for him at the bar. He pulled out his stool and bought a few inches of space between himself and Evie’s wandering hands.

  “She’s a meddling bitch, your sister.”

  “She’s—” Ready to defend Vi, Michael trailed off when he spotted a willowy figure at the end of the bar.

  Kylie wasn’t sure what got her attention, there in the unfamiliar laughter, noise, and smoke. It might have been Evie Nolan’s shrill voice carrying her way, or the feel of Michael’s eyes on her. Whatever it was, she wanted to turn and flee.

  She wasn’t meant to be in this foreign world. She hadn’t missed the surprised and disapproving comments when she’d arrived. And she wasn’t meant to watch Evie lean toward Michael and tug his face in her direction as if she owned the man.

  But she couldn’t leave without ruining Breege’s night. Resigned to staying, Kylie sipped the pretty colored drink she’d ordered, then winced at its dreadful taste. No wonder Rory O’Connor had asked her if she might not be wanting something a bit plainer. Too late now, just as it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen Michael. But there was some merit in a tactical retreat; she’d just slink back over by Breege and the others.

  Kylie was halfway to the front of the pub when she saw that the others included Vi Kilbride. She turned back to the bar. While she aimed for the far end, the press of people around her sent her toward the only open spot. Right next to Michael Kilbride.

  Keeping her eyes averted, Kylie set down her drink. A large, warm hand closed over hers.

  “I know you saw me.”

  She tugged her hand free. “I did, but you were looking busy.”

  She nodded to Evie Nolan, who had leaned forward on the bar to scowl at her from Michael’s other side. Their homeland might be lacking snakes, but it held its share of venom, Kylie thought as she took in Evie’s flat eyes.

  “Never too busy to say hello to a friend,” Michael said in a way that sounded as though he’d put in a long day drinking. The thought unsettled her even more. Far too many of her mornings had been spent nursing her father back to the living after one of his infamous “investor meetings.”