Sinister Intentions & Confiscated Conception

by Heather Graham

  “I need a diet,” he returned gruffly, then looked past her to Justin.

  Barney came up behind him, hands in his pockets. He gave Kit an understanding nod while Liam asked Justin where the doll was.

  Then they all went to stare at the mock sacrifice. Kit began to feel a bit silly for making such a fuss over it. It was just a prank, because she was an American, a foreigner, and she was seeing their precious O’Niall.

  The men were all crouching down together speaking in tones so low that she couldn’t hear their words. Then Justin looked up abruptly, as if suddenly remembering that she was there.

  “Why don’t you put on some coffee, Katherine?” he suggested mildly.

  She felt like telling him to make his own coffee, but Barney looked up then, too, smiling. “I wouldn’t mind tea, Kit, if ye’d boil a kettle of water.”

  She couldn’t very well be rude to Barney, so she started back to the cottage. Looking back, she noticed over her shoulder that Barney was holding up a plastic bag, and that Liam was picking up the doll and the stone, using a handkerchief. They were going to look for fingerprints. Kit was certain that they wouldn’t find any, but she supposed they had to make the effort.

  In the kitchen, she dumped Mike’s half-cooked eggs into the garbage, set the kettle on one burner and the coffeepot on another. She didn’t realize how edgy she was until she jumped at the sound of a movement behind her.

  “Easy, lass, ’tis me!” Barney told her quickly, smiling apologetically as he leaned against the door frame. “It’s upset you, badly then?”

  She shook her head. “No, no...really. I’m sure it was just a prank.”

  His face crinkled kindly. “Now, ye don’t believe that for a minute, do you, lass?”

  “It has to be—no, no, I don’t. Oh... I don’t know what I think.”

  “Well, now,” Barney murmured, moving into the kitchen. His voice was low again, as if he was afraid that the others would walk in at any second. “I’ve an idea. And I didna mean ta be listenin’ in, but the things I heard might have some bearin’.”

  She must have flushed, because Barney apologized again. “I do beg yer pardon.”

  “Please, I—we were yelling. I’m sorry you two were subjected to our private quarrels.”

  He smiled. “Aye, quarrels. People must matter very much to one another to have them, eh? But supposin’ that someone did believe that Mary Browne’s child was Justin’s eight years ago, and so the lass died. This same person kens that a mistake has been made. Well, then, he’d be lookin’ for someone new. Then we’ve Susan Accorn.”

  Kit sighed. “I said that to Justin the other night. He reminded me that Susan had no child.”

  “Aye, and she wasn’t really murdered properly.”

  “Properly? I don’t understand.”

  “Susan Accorn was gotten out of the way. To our murderer’s way of thinking, she wasn’t fit for the O’Niall. See what I’m saying to you, lass?”

  The kettle began to whistle. Grateful for the interruption, Kit turned around to make the tea.

  “Someone knows, Kit McHennessy. Someone else knows.”

  She spun around, nearly scalding herself. “Barney...?” There was a trace of hysteria in her voice.

  He quickly took the kettle and set it on the stove again. “Now, don’t go gettin’ wild on me, girl. Those two out there would be wringin’ me neck fer tellin’ me mind.” He gave her a crooked smile. “It’s not that they think ye’ve no sense, they’re just protective, especially Justin O’Niall. He’s that sort of man, and ye can’t go changin’ blood or breedin’. He’ll be that way all yer life, girl, no matter how ye try to tame him.”

  Kit lowered her eyes. “I don’t know that I’ll be trying, Barney,” she said, as lightly as she could. “But—”

  “Shush, now. I want ye to think. I want ye to think hard about who might be knowin’ about yer boy.”

  Kit shook her head vehemently. “Barney, no one knows.” She lowered her head and whispered. “Justin didn’t know. Barney, it’s impossible. I left here—I never said a word. My God, I stayed away eight years.”

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps somewhere ye said something, ye gave some hint.”

  “No, really.”

  “Think on it, lass. It could mean yer life.”

  She started to reply, then saw that Justin and Liam were coming in. She nodded quickly, then asked Barney how he liked his tea.

  “Two sugars, lass, thank ye.”

  Barney took his tea. Liam asked for coffee and smiled reassuringly when he took the cup. “A prank, as sure as day,” he said. “Don’t let it get under your skin.”

  “I think she should leave,” Justin said.

  Kit smiled sweetly. “She isn’t leaving,” she told Liam.

  “Well, now, perhaps you might want to see Dublin fer a spell. Or fly over to London.”

  “Back to New York would be better,” Justin said, his back to her while he poured his own coffee.

  “Well...” Liam’s eyes met Barney’s across the kitchen. He shrugged. “Kit McHennessy, it’s true strange things happened when you were here before. And now, well, we do have an unsolved murder once again.”

  “Liam, thank you for being worried. But I was in New York City when Susan was...when Susan died.”

  “You shouldna be alone,” Liam said.

  Justin turned around at last, eyeing Kit over the rim of his coffee cup. “She won’t be.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. Why didn’t she just go home? she wondered. She could buy herself some time. It was hard to imagine how she and Justin would manage to get along after their last argument. She had been a fool to come here.

  But she’d had to come. She’d always known that she would have to come back sometime. Even if Susan Accorn had lived and Justin had married her and they had settled into pleasant domesticity—she would have had to come sometime. Mike did have a right to know the truth.

  But not now...

  “I’d best be gettin’ back to me own office,” Barney said. He set his cup on the counter and winked quickly at Kit. “You call me, lass, if ye’ve ever a need to talk. Tell yer boy I said hello.”

  “I will, Barney.”

  “We’ll dust for prints, Justin,” Liam said. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not expecting much.”

  “Thank you both for coming out. I appreciate it,” Kit said.

  “Sorry it was fer the likes of such a thing.” Liam shook his head. “But then,” he brightened, “we’ll all be together soon enough fer a happier event. If yer still going to be with us, Katherine McHennessy, you’ll be at the celebration.”

  Kit must have looked confused. Justin, who was watching her, said coolly, “All Hallows’ Eve.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Barney plays his pipes,” Liam said with a laugh.

  “And I play ’em well, ye old coot,” Barney retorted.

  “Ye’ll hear fer yerself,” Liam warned Kit, and she laughed. But when Justin walked the two men to the door, she shivered. All Hallows’ Eve. The night of the goat-god.

  She was still in the kitchen when Justin returned. She stiffened; she had no idea what to say.

  “So you’re not leaving?” he said abruptly, coldly.

  “No.” He turned around and started for the stairs.

  Kit exhaled, then wondered nervously what he was up to. He hadn’t said a word about Mike. “Justin?” She heard movement upstairs. He didn’t answer her. She bit her lip and moved to the bottom of the stairway. “Justin!”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Packing.”

  “Packing? My things?”

  She took the stairs two at a time, arriving at the top breathless. He was in the bedroom; her suitcase was on the bed, and he was haphazardly th
rowing her lingerie into it.

  “Justin! What do you think you’re doing?”

  He didn’t glance her way. “You can’t stay here alone.”

  Instinctively she fought him, taking the things from the suitcase and shoving them back into the dresser. He moved to the closet. She followed suit.

  “Justin, I’m not leaving! I have to stay. Don’t you see? I don’t understand what happened to Michael, and I don’t understand what happened...between us. I have to find the answer. Can’t you try to understand that?”

  She grabbed his arm, forcing him to pay attention.

  “I understand,” he said briefly, and then he returned to his task.

  “Justin, stop it! I’m staying.”

  “Fine.”

  “Then what—”

  “Kit, you’re coming to the castle.”

  She stepped back, gasping. “I can’t!”

  “You have to.”

  “What would people—”

  “What would people say? Is that it? Has that been the crux of all this? What would people say if they learned that precious Katherine McHennessy had a child by the O’Niall?”

  She opened her mouth and stared at him, then shoved hard against his chest, sending him backward into the closet. “No! No!” she shrieked furiously. “That isn’t it—not this time, Mr. O’Niall. You’re the one accused of murder! And by your own admission, you’ve already had police and private investigators crawling down your throat! I was thinking of you, you stupid idiot!”

  Surprised, he stepped out of the closet. He tried to put his hands on her shoulders, but she shook him off.

  “Kit! I didn’t kill her, and, no, I don’t give a damn what people say, because I know the truth!”

  Kit shook her head. “I don’t want to come with you, Justin.”

  He backed her against the wall. His voice was soft, though his face seemed ravaged, taut, a pulse beating heatedly in his throat.

  “You said you love me, Kit.”

  “I do.”

  “Then...?” He whispered the word tensely, bitterly.

  “This! This packing! One minute you don’t believe me, but the next you’re dragging me around, supposedly to save my life.”

  “Good God, girl, I’m worried about you!”

  She lowered her head. She wanted to touch him, but she was too miserable to reach out. I’m afraid, she wanted to shout. I’m afraid of what I don’t understand. I’m afraid that you’ll take my son away, prove me a liar in his eyes. I’m afraid that I love you too much, that our passions run too deep, that there’s no way to cross the distance between us....

  “What is it, Kit? For the love of God, what is it?”

  She couldn’t speak, and when she finally reached out to touch him, he was gone.

  Chapter 9

  The air in the pub was stuffy with smoke, but it was warm inside and full of laughter. A dart game heavy with friendly competition was taking place in one corner of the room, and two of the old-timers were deep in a game of chess.

  As he watched the action surrounding him, Justin brooded ruefully about his home. He loved it. He knew that he came from a clannish people—any Irishman was passionate, opinionated and clannish—but this went deeper than just being Irish. This place was special. A man never had to lock his car in Shallywae; the elderly were never left to struggle along on pensions, nor were they ever sent to institutions. A man loved and respected his parents and his grandparents here. And a man, any man, was loved for the simple fact that he was one of God’s creatures. No hungry traveler was ever turned away; the hospitality of the ancient kings lived on.

  But now murder had darkened the air for the second time in eight years. And both murders involved him.

  “Think, man, think it over again.”

  Justin leaned back and took a long swallow of his beer, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. “There’s no one who knows,” he told Barney at last, lifting his hands helplessly.

  Barney sighed. “I canna be wrong.”

  Justin leaned forward across the table again, a shock of dark hair falling across his forehead. “I don’t think you are, but, Barney, think about it—it’s frightening. Day by day, all our lives, we’ve been living with a—a madman. Someone who walks and talks and smiles, someone who acts like a friend. Someone psychotic enough to murder innocent women. And we don’t know who! Damn it, we don’t know who!”

  Barney drew a finger up and down his nearly empty glass, looking warningly over Justin’s shoulder. Matthew O’Hara and Timothy Dalton, a couple of local farmers, were coming in. They both tipped their hats respectfully to Justin, who smiled and waved in return.

  She’d say it was because I’m the O’Niall, Justin brooded with a scowl. He didn’t think that was it at all. He’d lived here all his life, and he’d gained a fair amount of recognition as an architect. His name and face had even appeared in several magazines. These were friendly people, and they were pleased when one of their own did well.

  Barney raised his pint glass to the busy barmaid. “Meg, ye lovely peg o’ my heart! May we have another here?”

  Meg Flaherty, fifty-five years young if she was a day, flushed at Barney’s warm words and served their drinks.

  When she was gone, Barney lowered his voice again. “Liam’s watchin’ her now?”

  “He is.”

  Barney chuckled suddenly. “Now, ye know the lass would really be panicked if she thought she was bein’ followed night and day.”

  “Then what are we to do, Barney? I can’t take the chance of not having her watched.”

  He shrugged. “No, that ye can’t. If we could just put our fingers on the truth here...” His voice trailed away, and he cleared his throat. “Who was around back then?”

  Justin arched a brow. “Everyone. Myself, Liam, Doc Conar. Young Doug, Molly.” He paused unhappily. “Old Doug, but he’s always been...”

  “Senile,” Barney supplied dismissively. “And Molly has been working fer ye forever. And—”

  “Young Doug. Douglas Johnston,” Justin murmured, feeling slightly ill. “Mike goes off with him every day.”

  “Justin!” Barney reached forward to shake his arm. “The boy is in no danger. Never has been. The boy is the next O’Niall.”

  Justin exhaled. That was true. If there was something to Kit’s theory, Mike was in no danger.

  He suddenly tightened his fingers around his glass until they turned white. What the hell was going to happen here? He didn’t know how much longer he could stay away from her. Nor did he know how long it would be before he went rushing to the boy—his son—to sweep him into his arms and blurt out the truth.

  A pulse twitched in his chest, and he swallowed quickly, trying to hold down his confusion and despair and anger. What was so wrong between them that it couldn’t be righted? He didn’t want to say anything; he knew that he was dealing with a child’s fragile sensibilities. But she wouldn’t be rational, so what was he to do?

  She couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t let her. Not again. But he was afraid that she would. She liked New York, her work, her independence. Would she ever consent to a life in an isolated backwater like Shallywae, however quaintly attractive it might be?

  Barney smiled. “’Twould make life easier all around if ye could watch the lass yerself, Justin.”

  Dark, angry eyes rose to his. “I told you, Barney—”

  “Well, son, now surely, ye’ve devised buildings that defy the earth and sky. Can ye not devise a way back into her good graces?”

  Justin didn’t answer right away; he leaned back, drumming his fingers against the heavy wooden table. “Am I such an ogre, Barney? Tell me, is it wrong to cherish the life of someone you love?”

  Barney chuckled. “Which do I answer first? All right, Justin O’Niall. You are self-confident, determined�
�well, pig-headed. And no, ’tis not bad to care. What yer lacking, Mr. O’Niall, is the tact to listen carefully and pretend to agree, then do what you think necessary anyway.”

  “Oh?” Justin arched an imperious brow.

  Barney dared to chuckle again. He noticed that Justin’s glass was nearly empty again. He lifted his hand to Meg, asking the other man, “Do ye need another?”

  “Yes. I’m ‘devising,’” Justin retorted.

  “And what might ye be devising?”

  “A way back in.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer. “A stab at humility,” he promised solemnly.

  * * *

  The fire crackled in the hearth. Chewing the nub of her pencil, Kit stared into the flames.

  It was an exceptionally windy night. The howling wind seemed to hold the small cottage in a vise, like the mouth of a dragon.

  Mike was upstairs, sleeping. Kit herself was dressed in a warm, belted velour robe and her fuzzy slippers. She didn’t look sexy, she knew. But then, there was nobody to look sexy for.

  It had been a week—a full week!—since Justin had walked out the door. At first she’d cried, then she’d gotten angry, and finally she’d gone into a deep depression from which she hadn’t yet entirely emerged, though she’d tried.

  She had worked like a maniac for the majority of the time. Thanks to Julie McNamara’s assortment of books, she’d been able to put together a large number of diverse facts and theories, then form her own opinions. She’d made a list of “must have” photographs for her own book, and an outline for combining fact, fiction and current travel information into each chapter. She was pleased with her work, and pleased, at least in that respect, that she had come here. But on the personal side...

  With a sigh, she set down her pencil. She couldn’t work anymore tonight. Work was a balm, but when the restlessness settled over her, she knew she had to give up.

  Honestly, she chided herself in silence, you don’t even have the sense to be afraid! All you do is think about him, not about the murderer who’s still out there somewhere.