A Woman's Heart (9 page)

It wasn't that he didn't believe in monsters. After all, he'd certainly suffered more than his share of them. The difference between him and Rory Fitzpatrick, it seemed, was that his monsters had all worn human faces. And not one of them had possessed as benevolent a nature as the lake creature with whom Rory claimed close acquaintance.

“That's quite a story,” he said when Rory finally ran down.

“It's the truth.”

“I'm not disputing your word. I'm just rethinking my script.”

“You'd not be taking out the explosions?” Jamie asked, openly alarmed by that prospect.

“No. I think the director would ban me from the set if I suggested getting rid of those. They work too well on the trailers.”

“Trailers?” Rory echoed. “Like a traveler's caravan?”

“No, the type of trailers I'm talking about are movie previews.”

“Ah,” Jamie agreed shyly. “The comings. They're my favorite part.”

“Sometimes mine, too,” Quinn said. “And getting back to our problem with the Lady, perhaps I could make the creature a bit less vengeful.”

“I don't know if that's such a good idea.” Rory was plucking out handfuls of bottle green grass as he looked down at the fiberglass creature that had cost a small fortune and kept a team of special-effects artisans busy for months. “If the bad scientists are trying to take away her child, she'd probably fight back. My mam sure would.”

“Mothers are like that, I suppose,” Quinn murmured. Though he'd never shared such maternal devotion firsthand, he had no doubt Nora Fitzpatrick would fight like a tigress for her only son.

“My ma says she'd never let anyone hurt me, either,” Jamie said somberly.

Remembering the fear Rory's cousin had displayed on Sunday morning and the bullying behavior of Cadel O'Sullivan in the pub, Quinn suspected that this was a promise Kate O'Sullivan felt she needed to make to her son. Unfortunately, he suspected, it wasn't one she'd be able to keep forever.

“As I said, mothers are like that,” he repeated with more certainty than he felt. Experiencing that sinking feeling again and wanting to get off this topic that was suddenly hitting too close to home, he rubbed his hands together and said, “So, although our creature looks more like a dragon than the Lady she is, how would you boys like to get a look at her close-up?”

Needless to say, neither lad needed to be asked twice.

They stayed the rest of the afternoon, enthralled by ev
erything. Not wanting Kate or Nora to worry, Quinn had his assistant phone both mothers, assuring them their sons were fine and he'd be bringing them home later that evening. While neither argued against the plan, the young woman reported back to Quinn that Nora Fitzpatrick had sounded less than pleased.

Rory displayed interest in every detail, asking a continual litany of questions. His cousin remained far more reserved, and once, when Quinn absently placed a hand on the O'Sullivan boy's shoulder, Jamie had frozen in obvious fear. Understanding that response all too well, rather than take his hand away, Quinn had allowed it to linger another significant moment. The next time Jamie had merely flinched. Then, as the strong male hand proved harmless, he'd relaxed. By the end of the day, he seemed almost willing to trust Quinn, and while not nearly as outspoken as his cousin, he'd begun asking his share of questions, as well.

“It's going to be a grand movie,” Rory enthused as the trio drove home. It was twilight and the air was soft and still. The only sound was the light snoring coming from Maeve, asleep in the back seat.

“If it isn't, it won't be for lack of trying,” Quinn said. “Unfortunately, unlike westerns or thrillers, which have clearly defined good and bad guys, horror has always been difficult to do on film.”

“My mam says the things we imagine are always scarier than real things.” Rory wasn't about to admit that when he'd been little, he'd made his mother check under the bed every night for monsters before he'd let her turn off the light.

“Your mother is a wise woman.”

“Aye, Grandda always says she's the smartest girl in the county,” Rory agreed with renewed enthusiasm. “She's pretty, too.”

“She is that,” Quinn agreed.

“Great-grandma Fionna says there are lots of men in Castlelough who'd give their eyeteeth to marry her.”

“I don't doubt that for a minute.”

“But maybe there'd be those who might not want to get married to someone who already has a son.”

Hearing the obvious question behind Rory's question, Quinn slanted him a glance. “I'd say any man worth considering would find a son a bonus.”

“Would that be true?” The little face brightened.

“Absolutely.” Suspecting he knew where this conversation was going and wanting to head it off at the pass, Quinn decided he was going to have to be totally honest. “If I were interested in getting married, I think I'd like the idea of getting a ready-made family.”

“But you're not? Interested in getting married, I mean?”

“No.” Quinn's tone was friendly but firm. “I'm not.”

“Oh.”

When Rory fell silent and took a sudden interest in the misty fields flashing by the passenger window, Quinn felt like the lowest kind of jerk. But he also knew that holding out false hope would be even crueler.

He slowed down as a collie dashed out of a break in the hedgerow up ahead. He'd already discovered that this time of day, whenever you saw a dog, a herd of cows on their way from the pasture to the milking barn were close behind.

“My father died when I was a kid,” Quinn said into the lingering silence. He did not add that Jack Gallagher had been in prison at the time of his death, or that Quinn had practically done cartwheels when the authorities had telephoned his mother with the news. “So I know how hard it is sometimes not having a dad.”

“Like for the father-and-son trek,” Rory agreed glumly.

Quinn braked, allowing a boy only a bit older than Rory
to pass in front of the car. He was leading a herd of white-faced black cows, while the collie ran back and forth, seeming to keep cows and boy in a close-knit bunch.

“The father-and-son trek?”

“Yes. It's put on by the school and it's for a weekend,” Jamie piped up. “All the boys will be going. My da's even taking me.” The uncensored joy in his expression was a distinct contrast to the shadow that had moved over Rory's young face at the subject of the upcoming trip.

“Perhaps Brady could take you, Rory?” Quinn suggested hopefully.

Damn. He wasn't going to fall into this trap. After all, hadn't he done enough, giving the kids the grand tour today? Why should he be surrogate dad to the world's fatherless boys?

“Grandda said he would. But my mam said he's getting too old for such things.” Rory bit his lip and looked steadfastly out the front window. “I don't mind. I'd just as soon catch up on my chores, anyway.”

Quinn wondered why none of the myriad books he'd read about Ireland while trying to research
The Lady of the Lake
had bothered to mention that the damn emerald isle was covered with quicksand. Buckets of it. Everywhere a guy stepped. Or spoke.

“When is this trek?”

“A couple of weeks from now,” Jamie said. “It goes from Saturday morning to Sunday evening. We even have a dispensation from Father O'Malley to miss mass.”

“Imagine that. It must be a big deal.”

“It is,” Jamie assured Quinn. Rory didn't say a thing.

“Does the man have to be a member of the boy's family?”

“Oh, no.” Jamie shook his head. “In fact, I told Rory we could share my da, but—”

“How about me?”

“What?” That captured Rory's attention. He turned toward Quinn, his eyes filled with that same guarded hope Quinn had witnessed in Nora's during the brief stolen interlude at the lake.

“It's been a long time since I've been on a camping trip. Sounds like fun,” he said with a casualness unlikely for a man who could feel the quicksand closing in around him.

“You'd come? With me? Like a da?”

“Like a friend,” Quinn corrected, wanting once more to get this essential point straight. “And sure, I'd like to come. If you'll have me.”

Dark blue eyes glistened suspiciously, and for a moment, Quinn feared he was going to have to deal with a flood of tears. But apparently Rory Fitzpatrick was, like his mother, made of sterner stuff.

“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher,” he said formally. Only the merest tremor in his voice hinted at suppressed emotion. “I'd very much enjoy having you come on the trek with me.”

“Well, then, it's settled.”

As the boys began excitedly making plans for the upcoming adventure, Quinn was surprised that he didn't find the prospect of an overnight camping trip with Nora's son all that hard.

Here there be dragons.

Oh, yes, Quinn thought with grim irony, remembering how that thought had struck momentary dread in him right before he'd entered the Shannon terminal. Dragons were indeed alive and well in Ireland. He'd just never expected one of them to have taken on the benign appearance of a freckle-face six-year-old boy.

Oft in the Stilly Night

T
he moon had risen high in the cloud-darkened sky when Nora stood outside Quinn's room, listening to the faint tap-tap-tap of computer keys that told her he was still awake and working. She knew he'd been avoiding her ever since their time at the lake, and although she found his behavior faintly vexing, she'd also been grateful that he'd stepped back from what she kept telling herself would have been a dreadful mistake.

Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
Nora could almost hear her mother complaining in her head.
Isn't that all I need, a coward for a daughter?

Although Kate might be a believer in talking with those who'd passed on, Nora had always felt her little chats with her mother were more a case of her mind simply tapping into what she knew Eleanor Joyce would probably say in any given situation.

“Shut up, Mam,” she muttered now, just in case her
mother truly could be listening to her. She really was in no mood for an argument tonight, imaginary or not.

After returning from the village this afternoon, her day had taken a sharp downhill slide. John had remained late at school working on some end-of-term science project, forcing her to go out to the fields and bring in the cows herself. Mary was in the throes of yet another teenage funk, and Fionna, undeterred by the threat of more violence that had been reported on the news today, was still planning her trip to Derry.

Her father, never one to be counted on to pitch in with farm work, had outdone himself, arriving home from McLaughlin's Stoneworks inordinately pleased with his new purchase: a marble headstone.

“What in the name of all the saints were you thinking?” Nora had lost her temper and shouted at him. “Spending hard-earned money for such a thing?”

“The American has provided us with a profitable little windfall,” Brady had reminded her without heat. “Surely you wouldn't begrudge your poor old da a proper stone for his final resting place.”

Of course she wouldn't. But that wasn't the point. Her recent conversation with the doctor concerning her father's heart made the idea of someday losing the man who'd always remained a bit of a child too painful to contemplate.

“You won't be needing a headstone for years and years,” she'd insisted.

“Ah, but it makes me feel better, knowing it's taken care of,” he'd responded.

It was not such an unreasonable thing. Nora knew that the Irish need to have some funds put aside for a pleasant final resting place in the church cemetery and, for those lucky enough to afford it, a proper headstone, dated back to the days of the Famine. If the admittedly lovely piece of
fog gray marble etched with an ornately carved Celtic cross made Brady feel more secure, she had no right to begrudge him the purchase. Just the same, it had put a pall over an already trying day.

Then, if all that hadn't been vexing enough, when she'd finally finished up in the milking shed, she'd spotted sparks coming from behind the barn and had discovered that Celia and her best friend, Peggy Duran, had wrapped a Barbie doll in burlap, tied her to a stake and set her on fire, reenacting the martyrdom of Saint Joan.

With the acrid scent of melting plastic still in her nostrils, Nora had one more problem to deal with before she could drag herself off to bed. The business of Rory's trek.

She took another deep breath, fought the anxiety that was flapping huge wings in her stomach, then rapped on the plank door.

“It's open,” the deep male voice called out. “Come on in.”

Nora paused in the open doorway, her heart tumbling in a wild series of somersaults at the sight of Quinn sitting in bed—her bed, mind you!—bare to the waist. And even perhaps, she feared, beyond.

It had turned cool and wet after sundown, the spring weather predictably unpredictable. He'd lit a fire, and the light from the glowing peat made his tanned skin gleam copper.

“I'm sorry.” Nora told herself she should look away, but like a starving child gazing at hand-dipped chocolates in the sweet-shop window, she couldn't. She took another deep breath meant to calm. “I don't mean to be interrupting your work.”

“No problem. Just a minute.” He tapped a few more keys on his laptop. “Sorry, I just wanted to save the new stuff about the Lady.”

“Rory said you're changing the story.” That had surprised her. But then again, everything about the American had proved a surprise from the beginning.

“Actually I'm turning her back to the way I originally depicted her in the book.”

“Oh.” Since Nora still hadn't read the novel that was responsible for Quinn living beneath her roof, there was nothing she could say to that. “I should be thanking you for giving him such a wonderful day.”

“It was my pleasure. He's a great kid, Nora.”

“Aye. I believe so, too. Although I shouldn't be so boastful. After all, what mother doesn't think the sun rises and sets on her child?”

He laughed at that, causing her romantic heart to skip a beat. She wondered if he had any idea how appealing he was when he put aside his usual grim demeanor and allowed those little crinkly lines to fan out from his midnight eyes. His smile was surprisingly warm for a man who seemed unaccustomed to using it.

“You're too hard on yourself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Since it's obvious you've done a great job with the kid, you shouldn't feel the need to qualify the issue. Most women I know are better at accepting compliments.”

“I've no doubt of that.” She would not blush, Nora vowed firmly. No matter what the man said. Or how he looked at her. “However, I believe we've already determined that I'm not like most women of your acquaintance.” His kind of woman, she tacked on mentally.

“Point taken.” The smile faded, and the shutters slammed closed over his teasing dark eyes. “What can I do for you? From the lines in your forehead when you walked in, I'd suspect you didn't risk confronting me in bed just to thank me for giving your son the VIP treatment today.”

“No.” The way he'd folded his arms drew her gaze back
to his bare California-dark chest and made it even more difficult to concentrate. Nora considered asking him if he'd put on a shirt, then realized she'd only be letting him know exactly how much he unsettled her. Which, she thought on an inner sigh, he probably already knew. “It's about the trek.”

“Ah.” He arched a dark brow. “Are you about to suggest you don't trust Rory with me?”

“Oh, not at all.” Her first thought was shock that he'd even consider such a thing. Her second was a faint wonder why she was so certain that, despite his cautionary words to the contrary, Quinn Gallagher was, deep down inside, a good man. A man she could easily trust with her only child. “It's just that I can't be having him imposing on you in such a way.”

“It's not an imposition. If you think I volunteered to take your son on a hike in order to win points with you—”

“Oh, I wouldn't be thinking that!”

“Good. Because I know how tough it can be to miss out on all that father-and-son stuff. Besides, I haven't seen that much of the country since I arrived. This will give me a chance to do some sight-seeing.”

“And of course sight-seeing with eleven six- and seven-year-old boys is your lifelong dream.”

She couldn't resist the pleasure she felt when she made him laugh again. Yes, Quinn Gallagher was a hard man to know. But somehow, Maeve and Rory seemed to have found the way beyond the barricades he'd erected. And, although she knew it was the most dangerous thought she'd had yet concerning her boarder, Nora wondered what it would take to send those barricades tumbling altogether.

“All right,” he allowed. “If the truth be told, given a choice, I'd rather go trekking with you, since despite what
I said about you not being my type, the idea of sharing a sleeping bag with you beneath the stars has its appeal.

“But don't go looking for ulterior motives, Nora. I'd never use a kid to get to his mother.”

“I know you'll be thinking of me as just a backward country girl, but—”

“Ah, we're back to you accusing me of accusing you of being a
culchie.
”

“Well, it's true, isn't it?” Making Quinn laugh was one thing. Nora hated the way she seemed to be a continuing source of amusement for him even when she was trying her hardest to be serious. Growing more self-conscious by the moment, she went to the window, put her hand on the cold rain-wet glass and looked out into the blackness beyond.

“I've no doubt that any number of women in America would willingly tumble into your bed without a second thought.” When he didn't bother to respond to something that was so obviously true, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “But I can't escape the way I was brought up. I can't take such things casually.”

“Now, why doesn't that surprise me?” When he pushed aside the quilt, Nora was both vastly relieved to discover he was wearing jeans and shaken by how the sight of that open metal button at the low-slung waist had her fingertips practically tingling with the need to touch.

In two long strides he was standing in front of her. Too close. She took a tentative step backward and realized those steady dark eyes missed nothing.

“You're right to back away.” His voice was deep and low, like the rumble of distant surf. It also drew her as a silkie was inexorably drawn back to the sea. “After all, a woman like you would be crazy to get mixed up with a man like me.”

“You don't know anything about me.” Unnerved but determined not to show it, Nora lifted her chin.

How could he possibly know what type of woman she was, she wondered, when she didn't know herself? Ever since this man's arrival in Ireland, she'd felt as if a stranger had slipped beneath her skin and taken over her mutinous body. A stranger whose wicked thoughts alone undoubtedly shattered more commandments and church tenets than Nora had ever dreamed of breaking.

“Just as I don't know anything about you,” she added.

Quinn narrowed his eyes, then reached out his hands and thrust his long fingers through her hair, splaying them at the back of her head, holding her hostage to his steady gaze. Then he moved closer, trapping her between the cool glass and the heat of his body.

“And that would be important to you,” he said.

It was not a question, but Nora answered it, anyway. “Aye.” The single soft word sounded frail and shaky. Once again she considered how foolishly old-fashioned and parochial she must appear to this sophisticated American. “I told you, I can't take—”

“Sex casually. I know.” He continued to look down at her for a long thoughtful moment. Just when Nora's tightened nerves were on the verge of screeching like a wild banshee on a November eve's
Samhain
night, he backed away.

“It's late.” His voice was gruff and distant. “I know from experience that a farm day begins ridiculously early. You'd best be getting to bed.”

Any other woman might have been stung by such a curt dismissal. But Nora took heart from the realization he'd just given her a clue about his past. From the looks of him, she never would have guessed Quinn Gallagher knew anything about farming. But apparently he did.

Which meant, she thought with a burst of optimism, that perhaps the two of them had something in common, after all.

Sweet Mary, you're a hopeless romantic, Nora Joyce Fitzpatrick,
she imagined her mother's scolding tone.

Aye, Mam, I fear you're right.

Although life had taught Nora that leading with one's emotions could lead to heartbreak, such behavior had also allowed her to experience a great deal of joy, as well. Just looking at her son's face over the breakfast table every morning or gazing down at him asleep in his bed each night was enough to make her heart sing.

“Good night, Quinn.” His given name, which she was using for the first time, tasted as rich and sweet as freshly churned cream.

He'd backed away, granting her easy access to the door. Before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder. “Will we be seeing you for breakfast?”

There was more than the offer of porridge and scones in her question. Nora knew it. And obviously Quinn knew it, too. She could practically see the stone barricades going up around him again.

He rubbed his night-stubbled jaw. “I can't promise anything.”

Once again Nora understood they were not talking about breakfast.

“We'll leave things nice and easy, then.”

Because her fingers itched to rub at the lines bracketing his tightly set mouth, because she felt an unruly need to soothe the tension from his brow, Nora gave him a smile she hoped appropriate for an innkeeper to share with a boarder. Then she left the bedroom before she got herself into more trouble than she could handle.

 

Quinn couldn't sleep. His mind was tangled like the woven Celtic-knot tapestry hanging on the wall opposite the bed. He tried working on the outline for his new novel, but Nora kept intruding herself into the story.

Instead of being a dark-haired fey creature, his druidic witch possessed hair as bright as a California sunset and eyes the sparkling hue of polished emeralds. The one thing that didn't change was the way the heroine bewitched the hapless hero, casting a spell on him that drew him to her like iron filings to a magnet. And even though his fictional witch-hunter knew her to be the most dangerous woman he'd ever met, he was powerless to resist her charms. A feeling Quinn, unfortunately, could readily identify with.

Finally, sometime after midnight, needing to cool off from the sexual images writhing in the dark depths of his mind, Quinn dragged himself out of the tangled sheets, dressed and went outside.

The rain had passed on, leaving a clear night sky studded with stars glittering as icily as diamonds on black velvet. A white ring encircled a full moon that floated overhead like a ghost galleon.