She turned her head to stare out the window at the passing scenery. “I’ve never seen so many different shades of green. It’s so beautiful. Everywhere I look, it’s a picture. A painting waiting to happen. I wish I’d thought to bring my paints with me.”
“We can pick up some paints and things for you in Westport. It’s not far from the village.”
She shot him a quick look over her shoulder, trying to read the expression in his eyes. Was he just being nice, or was there some other motive behind his offer? Hard to tell, so she’d just accept it for what it was. “I’d love that.”
Green fields, crisscrossed by stone walls and dotted with black and white sheep spread out on either side of the car. In the distance, a smudge of purple on the horizon heralded the mountains. The sky was gray, the wind tearing across the fields. There were ruins, too. Crumbling stone towers that told stories of chivalry and greatness centuries ago.
“So many,” Laura mused, voice soft. “Castles and towers and they’re all still here.”
“Aye,” he said, glancing at the nearest crumbling spire of stone. “Their battles are done, their stone walls chipping away, but the echoes linger. They remind us. Always.”
“Remind you of what?”
He shot her another fast look. “That the Irish fight for what we hold dear. What we want, we get.”
There was a rumble of warning in his voice and she shivered at the sound of it. “And what if they don’t want it anymore once they’ve got it?”
“Well then, that would be a whole different problem, wouldn’t it?”
A few minutes later, they were parked in the road, waiting while a woman herded a cow toward home.
“You have interesting traffic jams,” Laura said, laughing.
“Aye,” he agreed. “And there’s no point in honking. It would be considered rude and the cow wouldn’t care at any rate.”
“It’s great. And it explains why you’re so patient with the traffic in California.”
“Ah, you don’t know traffic until you’ve waited for an entire herd of sheep to make their way along the road.”
“You’re happy to be home,” she said, watching him.
“I am at that.” He looked away from her, to stare out over the fields and Laura watched his features soften. “Every time I come home, I can’t imagine why I ever left.”
“You know, I watched the way people hustled around all day, leaping to do your bidding.”
“My bidding?” he countered with a short laugh. “You make me sound like a tyrant.”
“Not a tyrant,” she corrected. “Maybe a king.”
“Ah, King Ronan,” he mused. “I like that.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “But my point is, on the plane, in New York, you were distant. More formal. But now you’re—”
He turned his head to look at her and in the soft morning light, his features were shadowed, his blue eyes burning with intensity. “I’m what?”
“Different.” Since landing in Ireland, it was as if Ronan’s heart had opened up. She saw it in his eyes, on his features as he looked around at the country he loved. He was more…real, than she’d ever seen him. And that made him more dangerous to her heart than ever.
She’d convinced herself to enjoy this trip and then let go of the controlling, bossy, arrogant businessman Ronan Connolly, despite how it hurt to let go of the dream.
But this Ronan…Laura didn’t know if she’d be able to let him go when the time came.
“What do you think of my island then, Laura Page?”
“So far,” she admitted, when he gave her a quick look, “I love it.”
“Good answer,” he said, smiling. “A very good answer.”
A few miles further on, he turned off the road into a wide gravel drive lined by chrysanthemums, their bright colors looking bedraggled by wind and rain.
The lovely house at the end of the wide, gravel drive was gray stone, two stories tall and spread out from the middle into two wide wings. Windowpanes glittered in the early morning sun.
“Home,” Ronan told her and shut off the engine.
Stunned, Laura climbed out of the car to stand on the graveled drive. Her gaze swept over the manor house, the grounds around it and finally, to him, only to find Ronan watching her.
“Okay, now I understand why you didn’t like any of the houses I showed you.” She looked back at the house that had no doubt stood for centuries. “If you were comparing them to this one, there’s just no contest.”
“Oh,” he said, “there’s one house at the beach that has something this one doesn’t.”
“Really?” She shifted her gaze back to him. “Which one?”
“The one where you live, Laura.”
She pulled in a long deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping to steady herself. But who was she fooling? There was no balance around Ronan. Ever. And being on his home turf now, she knew she was asking for trouble. Yet, she couldn’t seem to care.
The front door was painted a bright cherry-red and when it flew open a deep woof shattered the quiet. A huge, black-and-white English sheepdog bolted from the house and flew across the drive, headed right at Ronan.
“Deirdre!” He laughed, braced himself and only rocked in place when the giant dog slammed into him. His big hands scrubbed at her fur, scratched behind her ears, sending the dog into spasms of ecstasy.
Crouching beside her, Ronan looked up at Laura and said, “Meet Deirdre, named for one of Ireland’s mythic heroes.”
Before Laura could speak, the dog was up and scuttling for her, prepared to pounce in exuberant greeting.
“No!” Ronan shouted and Deirdre dropped to her butt and wiggled in place.
Charmed and delighted at the wildly excitable dog that had thankfully broken the tension between she and Ronan, Laura bent down, and swiped the dog’s hair back from its eyes. Deirdre swiped her tongue across Laura’s face as welcome.
“An Irishman with an English sheepdog?” Laura asked, still laughing as she wiped her face and looked up at the man who’d come to stand beside her.
“I’m not so small a man I can’t admit that the Brits do some things right. And they did with Deirdre’s breed.”
He took her hand and she felt that now-familiar zing of something wicked sweep through her body. As if he knew exactly what she was feeling, he squeezed her hand, winked at her and said, “Come along then, see my home.”
Said the spider to the fly.
Eight
As webs went, it was a beauty, was all Laura could think.
Deirdre raced ahead of them, her claws clattering on the gleaming oak floorboards and sliding every time she hit one of the colorful rugs scattered about.
The walls were painted a soft blue and dotted with paintings—family portraits, mainly. While Ronan strode through the house, searching for who, she didn’t know, Laura took a moment to study the faces glaring down at her.
One man in particular looked as if he wanted to chew his way through the painting and clamber back into the world to rule it. The woman at his side, though lovely, looked no happier to be trapped in her canvas.
“My parents,” Ronan told her, coming up behind her so quietly she hadn’t heard his approach. Startled, and feeling a little guilty for what she’d been thinking, she turned to look at him. She could see the resemblance, she noted, though she’d never seen real coldness in his expression. Until now.
“Where are they now?”
He shrugged as if her question meant little to him. “Sniping at each other, no doubt, caught between Heaven and Hell as neither of them can agree on a thing.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“’Twas a long time ago,” he said, his gaze shifting from her to the portrait and back again. “They died in a car accident, the two of them, more than ten years back now.”
She thought of her own parents, happily nesting in Oregon, and how she would feel if she lost them. “It must have been hard to lose them both so suddenly.
”
Ronan’s gaze caught hers. “Don’t put emotions where you think they should be,” he said. “My parents were as unhappy a pair as you’d ever meet and made sure to share that feeling with their only son.”
“Ronan—”
He shook his head and took her hand, leading her into the front room. “I found Patsy, my housekeeper, in the kitchen. She’s made tea and will be bringing it to the parlor right along.”
“Okay.” He didn’t want to talk about his parents so they wouldn’t. But Laura had to admit, at least privately, that learning about his parents helped her to understand him a bit better. No wonder he didn’t make much of family. Or love. No wonder he hadn’t known how to react when she’d told him of their lost baby.
Her mind still working on the problem of Ronan, she stopped dead and smiled as she looked at the room. The parlor was amazing. A white-tiled hearth, where a fire burned cheerfully against the gloom of the day. Pale green walls hung with seascapes. Oversize couches facing each other across a wide table that held a Waterford crystal bowl of autumn flowers.
“It’s lovely.”
“Aye, it is,” he said, stalking across the room to a spindle table that held a selection of crystal decanters. He picked up a tumbler, poured himself a drink, then turned to look at her, one hand resting on the mantel.
Laura sank onto one of the couches, her knees gone suddenly weak. God, he was gorgeous. In America, he had swept her right off her feet without effort. Here, in his home, he was even more devastating. He belonged here. Lord of the Manor, she thought, catching the glint of pride in his eyes. And at once, her mind turned to the ruined towers and castles they’d seen on their trip here. He could have stepped out of the past, she thought. Irish warrior. Proud. Strong. Unrelenting.
A chill swept across her skin and she shivered.
“Cold still?” he asked.
“No, I’m good.” Just crazy, she thought, to even be entertaining the kind of thoughts racing through her mind at the moment. She wanted him so badly, she ached with it. But sleeping with him would change nothing. He was still not the man for her. And if she let herself feel more for him, wouldn’t the pain be that much sharper when it inevitably ended?
“Ah, here’s tea.”
Patsy Brennan was short, with graying black hair scraped into a bun at the back of her neck. Her pale skin was milk smooth and her blue eyes held traces of tears. “Here we go, then. Hello, miss. Welcome to Ireland.”
“Thank you,” Laura said as the woman set a tray down in front of her on the table. There was a plate of sandwiches, another plate holding freshly iced, tiny cakes and a teapot with violets running its circumference. “It looks wonderful.”
“Kind of you to say. Now I’ll just be off to—”
“What’s wrong, Patsy?” Ronan asked.
“Nothing a’tall,” the woman assured him. “And it’s nothing for the now, anyway.”
Laura kept her head down and poured herself a cup of tea.
“If it’s not for now, then there is something,” Ronan told her. “And your own Sinead called me only yesterday to tell me there was trouble, so what’s it about then?”
“She shouldn’t have called.” Patsy straightened up, all five feet of her, and gathered such a look of dignity about her, she could have been a queen.
“Aye, well, she did. And why shouldn’t she call?” Ronan asked, walking toward the older woman. “She’s been like a sister to me all these years and you more a mother than I ever knew.”
Patsy frowned at him. “You had a fine mother and all and this isn’t the time.”
Laura sank back into the couch cushions, trying to be invisible. If she’d had the slightest idea where to go from this room, she might have bolted. Instead, she was caught.
“Laura’s a…friend,” Ronan said and she scowled into her tea. A friend. A friend who had shared his bed, lost his child and had been blackmailed into a trip to Ireland that was getting more interesting by the minute. “You can say what you will in front of her.”
Frowning still, Patsy folded her arms beneath her comfortable bosom and tapped the toe of one shoe against the flowered rug beneath her feet. Throwing an apologetic glance at Laura, she said, “I’ll beg your pardon for his manners. It seems his rearing was somewhat lacking.”
“It’s okay,” Laura said, waving off the apology and picking up a cake.
“You’ve no need to apologize for me,” Ronan said. “Now tell me what the trouble is so I can fix it and be done.”
“As pushy a man as you were a child,” she said, half to herself and had Laura snorting in agreement. “Always did think you knew the way of things and that everyone else should simply say, ‘Aye, Ronan,’ and go along.”
“Hmm…” Laura said.
“Oh, miss,” Patsy told her with a sharp nod, “I could tell you stories about himself and his cousin Sean…”
“Please, call me Laura.” She took a bite of the cake and nearly groaned with pleasure.
“I will then and thank you, Laura. You’re a patient woman to be putting up with—”
Ronan’s shout caught both their attentions. “Will you tell me the bloody trouble?”
“There’s no trouble,” came a male voice from the doorway.
They all turned to see Sean Connolly, standing in between a young couple. Sean’s dark brown hair was wind-ruffled and his long-sleeved white shirt had grass stains on it. He looked rumpled, but proud.
The girl beside him had short black hair, tear-stained blue eyes that were too much like Patsy’s for the girl to be anyone but her daughter Sinead. And the boy had what promised to be an impressive black eye blooming on his face.
“Sean, what’re you doing here?” Ronan demanded, shifting his gaze from his cousin to the couple to Patsy. “Will somebody please tell me what the bloody hell is going on?”
“Laura,” Sean said, a wide grin splitting his face, “’tis good to see you again!”
“Thanks.” She hadn’t seen Sean since the night he had dropped Beast off at her house what felt like years ago. “You look busy.”
“Aye, I have been,” he admitted, then gave the boy in his grip a hard look. “But ’tis settled now.”
“He hit Michael,” Sinead cried, jerking a thumb at Sean.
“I did and will again,” Sean agreed.
The boy, Michael, Laura guessed, tried to make a break for it, but Sean tightened his hold on him before he could take a step. “Easy on, boy’o. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Ronan,” Sinead complained, “tell Sean to let him go.”
“Not until I know what’s going on in my own damned house!” Ronan’s shout was even louder this time, and Laura winced. She was pretty sure she heard the window glass rattle in the panes.
“Language!” Patsy snapped.
Ronan swiped one hand across his face, Sean shook Michael like a dog with a bone, Sinead wailed piteously and Laura fervently wished that she was holding a martini instead of a cup of tea.
“There’s to be a wedding,” Sean told him then leaned into the captive boy. “Isn’t there, young Michael O’Connor?”
The kid nodded.
Laura felt for him even though she hadn’t a clue what was going on.
“I’ll not marry him!” Sinead lifted her chin and stalked to the window seat across the room. She dropped onto it with all of the drama a young woman could muster and stared off through the panes at the gray day beyond.
Ronan looked at his cousin. “Why should she marry him?”
“She’s carrying his baby, and he’s decided to do the right thing, haven’t you, Michael?”
“Aye,” Michael muttered.
“Baby?” Ronan echoed.
“A wedding?” Laura said.
“More tea, miss?” Patsy asked.
* * *
Ronan felt as if his head might explode.
And at the moment, he would have welcomed it.
Patsy shouted at Sinead, Sinead shouted at Sean, Sean
shouted at Michael, and Ronan shouted at all of them. The only sensible person in the room was Laura. And she sat on the sofa, watching them all as if they were on the bloody television.
“I’ll not marry a man you had to chase down like a dog,” Sinead told Sean.
“I didn’t run,” Michael said.
“Oh, aye, a fast walk, then?” Sean sneered at the boy.
Sinead pregnant? How was that possible, he asked himself. Only a day or so ago, she was twelve, playing with dolls in the garden. Following him about like a puppy, peppering him with questions. His heart turned over in his chest. Somehow he had missed her growing up on him.
Pregnant.
Was there an epidemic he hadn’t heard about? His friend Sam Travis’s wife was having a child. Now Sinead. And of course, he thought, his gaze sliding to the woman sipping tea as casually as if she were alone in the room, there was Laura.
She’d had his child inside her. A stir of something he couldn’t identify rushed through him. Would she have been any easier to talk to than Sinead had Laura kept the baby? Would he have faced her down in a shouting match over a marriage he would have insisted on?
Laura looked up just then and caught him looking at her. In her eyes, he saw shadows, and he knew that she, too, was thinking of their own situation and comparing it, now, to Sinead’s. They would have to talk about this. But for the moment, there were the loud shouts in the room to deal with.
“Sinead,” Ronan bellowed, and got everyone’s attention. “Let’s make this as simple as possible. Are you carrying Michael’s child?”
She sniffed, wiped away a single angry tear and lifted her chin. “I am.”
“Then you’ll marry,” he said flatly, sparing one warning glare at the father of the girl’s baby. “As soon as we can manage.”
“As it should be,” Sean said, satisfied.
“The banns could be read at Mass as early as Sunday,” Patsy was saying, more to herself than anyone else.
“I told her I’d marry her already. You didn’t have to blacken my eye,” Michael said.
“’Twas fun,” Sean assured him.
Up Close and Personal Page 11