Mulligan Stew (33 page)

Who'd have ever thought that meek little Bridget would suffer from sexual anxiety? Or was it deprivation? What would Oprah or Rosie have called it? Granny had watched their shows loyally, and she surely would've been able to diagnose Bridget's condition.

Imagining Granny doing such a thing made Bridget giggle. The old woman would've called it what it was. She would have said, "Bridget, go out and get yourself a husband who can scratch that itch of yours."

"What's so funny?" Riley asked, his voice low and husky and
close
.

Bridget choked and reached for the water. She glanced at him as she sipped, which made her gasp and cough yet again.

"Give the lass a pat on the back, Riley," Fiona called.

Bridget's eyes widened, as did his. "No, don't," she whispered. "I don't think I could stand it."

Realization flared in his Mulligan blue eyes and his nostrils flared ever so slightly. Knowing he knew made her want him all the more. Why were they pussyfooting around this? They were both adults. Unmarried.

Definitely
willing
.

Shame oozed through her. There were a million reasons
not
to surrender to her desire for Riley. First and foremost, there was his momma. She looked over her shoulder and thought she saw Fiona wink at her. That must have been her imagination.

Another reason was Culley's memory and the accusations Riley had made when Bridget had first arrived. That thought made her blink and meet his gaze again. Why had he stopped slinging insults and accusations? For that matter,
when
had he stopped?

After that night at the castle....

"Mercy," she said hoarsely, taking another sip of water and looking away from his smoldering eyes.

"At least the sun decided to shine today," Fiona said, carrying plates to the table. She pulled out the chair beside Bridget and told Riley to sit.

His usual place was
across
the table—not beside her. Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder at the woman, who was humming to herself as she carried more platters and bowls to the table.

Looking as confused as Bridget felt, Riley sat.

Why did he have to be so danged big? His muscular thigh brushed against Bridget's and his shoulder was hot against hers.
Mercy.
She reached for the water glass again.

"Fiona, let me help you with—"

"No, you sit." Fiona set a plate in front of Bridget just as the back door swung open, admitting Maggie and Jacob.

"Mornin', Momma." Jacob washed his hands, then bounced over to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Her son's presence might save her. She started to rise to give him her place, but he'd already plopped into his usual chair on the other side of the table. Maggie took the one normally occupied by Riley.

Just peachy.

Fiona took her seat and said grace, then started passing the bowls. The one containing the black pudding came to Bridget and she stared down at it. She leaned closer and took a sniff.
Definitely not chocolate.

"It's good, Momma," Jacob said from across the table as he shoveled eggs and bacon and... whatever this stuff was into his mouth.

"Aye, very good," Riley said, his deep voice rumbling through his shoulder and into Bridget's.

"Not everybody likes black puddin', Jacob," Fiona said diplomatically.

Remembering all the dishes Bridget had sprung on this family, she sighed and took a serving of the strange substance. Her instincts told her not to touch it.

Her sense of fairness demanded it.

Besides, concentrating on food instead of the man beside her might be her salvation.

She tried not to think about the way Riley felt next to her, the way the muscles in his arm rippled when he moved even a little, the way her heart did the limbo with her windpipe when he looked at her from the corner of his eye with that "I want
you
for dessert" expression.

Oh, God.
She took another sip of soda pop and started on her eggs. She'd save the black stuff for last, since pudding was a dessert.

Don't think about dessert.

What she wanted for dessert would be rated PG-13—not for a family breakfast. As she chewed, she felt something rub her ankle and gulped. Again, something brushed its way around her ankle to the inside of her bare foot.

Not wanting to alarm anyone, she glanced discreetly down at her foot, noticing Riley's big boot lying off to one side. His stockinged foot busied itself rubbing hers while his thigh pressed more intimately against her.

The heat of desire wafted through her and Bridget tried not to fidget. How could she make him stop without causing a scene? She hazarded a glance at his profile and found him watching her from the corner of his eye again.

All right, so what she wanted for breakfast would be rated R in American theaters. She pushed food around on her plate, trying to ignore the tingling sensations snaking their way up from her foot to the rest of her.

Shamelessly, she lifted her foot just a bit and returned some of his torture. His breath came out on a hiss as she dragged her big toe sensuously along the cuff of his sock, and found his bare leg.

Yes, skin. That was what she wanted. His skin. Her skin. Theirs. She wanted the full length of his nakedness against hers.

She wanted to feel his sleek muscles rubbing against her softness. She wanted his hot, hot mouth to suckle at her breasts until she couldn't stand it anymore.

She linked her big toe with his, mimicking what she wanted most—their ultimate joining, when he would fill her and make her his. It would be wonderful. Perfect.

Satisfying.

Oh, yes.
Satisfaction was what she needed. The endless torture had to end. He slipped his toe between two of hers.

Filling her.

Bridget stiffened, imagining another type of fulfillment. More. So much more. She would scream if she—

"Momma, aren't you gonna taste your puddin'?"

Earth to Bridget.
She drew a shaky breath and blinked several times, focusing on her son's sweet face.

Mercy.
She'd almost had an orgasm at the breakfast table. A real one—not fake like the noisy one Meg Ryan had performed in
When Harry Met Sally
. Granny had loved that movie, and especially that scene.

Bridget was mortified. At least she was quieter than Meg Ryan. She cleared her throat and withdrew her foot from harm's way.

Oh, Lord. My dessert wish is X-rated, and I'm a bad, bad girl.

Properly chastised, she nodded and took a big bite of the odd pudding.

And froze.

"What.
Is.
This?" she asked around the glob on her tongue.

"Black pudding," Fiona said, confused. "What did you think it was, lass?"

Bridget forced herself to swallow it and drained her glass to wash it down. "I don't know, but pudding is supposed to be sweet. This is..."

"Sweet, is it?" Maggie laughed. "I haven't been able to eat black pudding since I learned what it really is."

Bridget met her sister-in-law's gaze. "And what
is
it?"

"Black pudding is..." Maggie wrinkled her nose. "You don't want to know. Just don't eat it."

Fiona chuckled and Jacob looked around the table with a look of confusion. "Is it somethin' bad?" he asked.

"No, lad." Fiona gave Maggie a stern look. "'Tis not bad. Your Uncle Riley ate all of his. Look."

"Aye," Riley said, his voice rumbling through Bridget again.

Mercilessly.

He rested his toes near hers and said, "Black pudding will make a man tall, strong, handsome, and... virile."

Perfect.
Bridget tried to edge away from the man with the talented toes, but he rested his hand on her thigh.

Have mercy.
She held her breath.

"What's in it?" Jacob asked again.

"Blood," Riley said.

Bridget bolted for the bathroom.

Chapter 16

Riley worked near the stable, watching for the inspector and his crew.

What the devil had come over him this morning?

And why had Mum manipulated him into sitting beside Bridget? He'd seen the twinkle in Fiona Mulligan's eyes. Mum was obviously bent on matchmaking, and that realization left Riley even more confused.

So Mum had noticed the attraction between Riley and Bridget. Had Maggie? Jacob was too young to pay attention to such things. At least, Riley hoped so.

He cleaned tack and rearranged it twice while he contemplated the most unusual—and deliciously stimulating—breakfast he'd ever experienced. A wicked smile tugged at his mouth.

Aye, he'd been near to bursting sitting there beside Bridget. Knowing she wanted him as much as he wanted her had made him lose every bit of sense. The look in her green eyes, the softness of her mouth as she'd licked her lips...

He groaned and leaned his head against a saddle. "Get yourself under control, Mulligan," he muttered. This was a big day. The inspection.

Aye, he would concentrate on that. Stepping outside, he gazed toward
Caisleán Dubh
and drew a deep breath. Since his meeting with Brady, he had resigned himself to this. The Mulligans had allowed this wretched curse or spell to rule for far too long.

This
Mulligan would end it—God help him.

He didn't know how yet, but he sensed it was his duty. His destiny? Aye, even that. There had to be a reason Bridget could hear the whispering. A reason Culley had. A reason Riley could now.

Whatever it was, whatever it would bring, the time had come for the Clan Mulligan to reclaim
Caisleán Dubh
.

He watched the truck stop near the castle, while a small car continued on toward the cottage. "Well, then. 'Tis time." He put away his tools and tried to ignore the whispering that greeted him as he started across the meadow toward
Caisleán Dubh
. Toward fate.

Let's not be getting dramatic about it now.

He kept a steady pace, suspecting Bridget would ride out to the castle with the inspector.
Oh, Da.
He sighed, but his step never faltered.
Tell me I'm doing the right thing. Tell me this isn't the biggest mistake of my life.

A gentle breeze wafted in off the ocean and a dove came with it, sailing over Riley, then back toward
Caisleán Dubh
. A sign? Did Riley believe in such nonsense?

At this point, he'd believe almost anything. After all, he'd spent all his life believing in a curse, only to learn it could be a spell instead. Either way, it would end. He would see to it.

Brady was in Kilmurray looking for duplicates of missing parish records. At one time, the only priest in the area had been in Kilmurray. Brady was confident of finding at least some of the missing pieces of this very bizarre puzzle he'd uncovered. Once Riley had all the facts, he would share them with his family. Eventually.

First, he had to come to terms with his raging desire for Bridget. At least he'd stopped denying it to himself. Even more significant was the fact that he no longer believed his craving for Bridget was all curse-induced. No, his ache for her was about flesh and blood—man and woman. All right, so he had to allow there could be more to it, but still... it was
Bridget
he wanted.

Would he have wanted her if she'd come home on Culley's arm as his bride?

Now
there
was a question Riley didn't want to answer—not now or ever. Nor did it matter, since Culley was gone. "Boyo, you had good taste in women. Except for Katie," he added, shaking his head.

Enough about that. Riley lengthened his stride as he heard the small car returning from the cottage. After greeting the architects and inspectors milling about the massive doors waiting for their boss, he turned to watch the small, blue car roll to a stop beside the castle.

Bridget climbed out of the passenger side, but there was no sign of Mum. He was glad of that.
Caisleán Dubh
always upset her. Mum must have kept Jacob at home. For that, Riley was doubly glad.