A Woman's Heart

by JoAnn Ross

  “Miss what?”

  Where to begin? Despite his assurances, she worried about asking him to make so many major changes to his fast-paced American life-style. Would he honestly be happy living on a small farm in west Ireland? Away from the bright lights of the world he was accustomed to?

  “Hollywood, for one thing.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  He’d already determined that the movie business wasn’t for him. There were too many delays for what he found ridiculous reasons, too many compromises made on a daily basis, too much emphasis on marketing the story rather than worrying about the message of the tale. The only reason he’d agreed to write the screenplay in the first place was to maintain control over a story he cared a great deal about. Unfortunately control had proved to be an elusive thing in Hollywood.

  “The only good thing about working on this film was meeting you.”

  “What a lovely thing to say.”

  “It’s the truth.” He ran his hands over her bare shoulders and down her arms. “I love the idea of living here in Ireland with you. And the family.” He wasn’t about to admit that every so often, when he wasn’t looking, old fears would attack, like a skeletal hand reaching out from under the bed to grasp at an ankle. His life had changed, Quinn assured himself several times a day. He’d changed.

  Nora’s heart fluttered. He was doing it again. Heating her blood, melting her bones. “I love that idea, as well. Although it’s a shame a famous man such as yourself is going to be writing his best-selling novels in a barn.”

  He shrugged. He’d written his first stories during his stint in the navy, scribbling away in his bunk, lost in the world of his characters while a noisy shipboard life went on around him. Quinn figured Rory’s mare would undoubtedly prove a much quieter roommate than a bunch of sailors.

  “I’m only going to be using the tack room until my office gets built.” They’d designed it together, a traditional cottage with a thatched roof situated on a piece of green meadow overlooking the standing stones between the Joyce and O’Sullivan land and the sea beyond. Quinn knew writers who’d kill for such an imagination-stimulating location.

  “Oh, that reminds me. Robert Duggan brought by some paint samples today. I left them in the kitchen.”

  “You can get them later.” He snagged her wrist as she went to climb out the bed.

  “But you’ll be wanting—”

  “To hell with the paint. White’s white. I don’t want to waste the night trying to detect some imperceptible difference between Swiss Coffee, French Cream and China Mist. Let Duggan pick whatever he wants.” He paused. “Because what I want right now is you.”

  Nora turned back into the arms of the man she loved. The man who, just as her father had predicted and her mother had promised, loved her back.

  “I want you, too.” And as she lifted her face for his kiss, Nora’s carefully planned argument for Swiss Coffee immediately fled her mind.

  It was the day before May Day and the household was in an uproar. The postman had been bringing greeting cards all week for Celia, who was preparing to receive her First Holy Communion. And if that long-awaited occasion wasn’t enough, Mary had, indeed, been chosen queen of the May Day dance, which raised the anxiety level of the sixteen-year-old girl several notches.

  As she baked the cakes for the party that would be held after mass at The Rose, Nora assured Mary yet again that their mother’s jade earrings were perfect with her new evening gown.

  “Aye. Much more flattering than the gold hoops.” As Mary left the room to one more time try on the lovely dress Quinn had bought her in Derry, Nora heard a squabble break out in the parlor. “Celia, Rory, stop that bickering this minute!” she called out.

  Celia had proven insufferable all week, lording the money that had come in all those first communion cards over her nephew. And Rory, who was growing impatient waiting for his horse to arrive, had been uncharacteristically short-tempered.

  “The girl’s certainly all puffed up with herself,” Fionna muttered from her seat at the kitchen table where she was staging her battle plan to confront the bishop on the steps of the church immediately after tomorrow’s mass to celebrate the Virgin. “When I suggested she give some of her money to the missionary fund, she began rattling on about a Barbie playhouse.”

  “I suppose when you’re seven years old, dollhouses are more appealing than saving pagan souls,” Nora said mildly. She glanced at the stack of colorful flyers scattered over the top of the table. “Are you certain you want to confront the bishop in such a public place?”

  “He won’t answer my letters.” Fionna uncapped a black felt marker and began printing tall block letters on the placard she intended to take to the church. “And he’s been stalling for months. This way he won’t be able to duck the issue.”

  Nora glanced over at Quinn, who was peeling potatoes for dinner. She still wasn’t accustomed to a man in the house. Especially in her kitchen.

  “If you intend to run out on me, today would definitely be the day to do it.”

  “Not on a bet.” His grin was as warm as buttery summer sunshine and made her heart feel as light as the helium balloons she’d ordered from Monohan’s Mercantile for Celia’s communion celebration tomorrow.

  She smiled back, so in love sometimes she thought her lips would freeze into the foolish grin she saw on her face whenever she passed a mirror. “Did you happen to have an opportunity to speak with John?” she asked quietly so as not to garner Fionna’s attention.

  “While we milked the cows. And he promises to behave in the future. But it’s really not that big a deal, sweetheart.”

  She’d gone into John’s room to put away some laundry this morning and had discovered him downloading photographs from the Internet. The women, clad merely in the rosy flesh they’d been born with, were supposedly, according to the caption, Babes from Britain. Both Nora and John had momentarily frozen; as the suggestive photos flashed onto the screen, she hadn’t known which of them was more embarrassed, her or her brother.

  “I don’t want him getting into trouble,” she said firmly. “He has his entire future ahead of him.” A scowl darkened her face and furrowed her brow. “A future that hopefully does not include any Knockers from Nottingham,” she muttered, remembering all too well the heading above one particularly well-endowed platinum blonde.

  “It’s not so different from a kid sneaking his first illicit look at Playboy. All boys do it, Nora.” The brown potato skins were flying into the sink. “Just like all teenage girls probably check out romance novels searching for the sex scenes.”

  She felt the color rise in her cheeks as she thought back to those forbidden books so many of the postulates—herself included—had nervously giggled over after the sisters had turned off the lights in the convent dormitory.

  “Mary has a best friend, Deidre McMann, who’s about to become a mother. The father is a college boy. Or was until he had to quit school to work on his parents’ farm to support his new family.”

  “John’s a bright kid. And a responsible one. You did a good job raising him these past years. I think it’s time to relax and let him take responsibility for his own life, let him make his own choices.”

  “I know.” She sighed, thinking of the fateful choice Kate had made when she’d been John’s age. “But I do worry.”

  “Of course you do.” He leaned over and dropped a light kiss on her lips. “That’s what I love about you.”

  Love. It was, Nora thought, allowing him to ease her concerns, the most glorious word in any language.

  The following day, as Nora watched the processional of little girls dressed up like brides of Christ in lacy white dresses and sheer pearl-studded veils, she thought Celia looked like an angel. Only the little girl’s white knuckles, as she clutched the rosary from Fionna and the new white missal Quinn had surprised her with this morning, revealed her nervousness.

  Later that evening, when Mary came downstairs dressed for the d
ance and looking as beautiful as a movie star, Nora thought once again how many things had changed. Some for the worse. She couldn’t help wishing her da had been here to see his two daughters looking so lovely today. But then again, she considered, he probably had been watching. Along with her mam.

  That thought, and the memory of their last conversation by the lake, comforted her.

  As she watched Parker Kendall pin the orchid corsage on Mary and saw Quinn fix the young actor with a steely protective warning gaze, she realized that most of the changes—and all of them having to do with this man—had definitely been for the better.

  Much later, as she lay in Quinn’s arms floating on the ebbing tide of spent passion, Nora said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God, her mam and da, and even any of Kate’s ancient Celtic gods and goddesses who might be listening, for bringing such a special, loving man into her life.

  Nothing in Quinn’s life had ever come easy. He was also Irish enough to feel superstitious about enjoying such uncommon domestic bliss. Which is why, despite his love for Nora, despite the way he was beginning to feel like a true member of her extended family, he couldn’t help continuing to feel a lot like Sydney Carton’s tragic character in A Tale of Two Cities. The question was not if the damn blade was going to drop. But when.

  It was the day after May Day, the day before he’d been scheduled to return to California. The day before he’d planned to leave Ireland—and Nora—forever. As he hooked up the horse trailer to the Mercedes, which he’d already arranged to buy, he was amazed at how much his life had changed in four short weeks. How much he had changed.

  “Talk about magic,” he murmured as he drove to Kate’s farm to pick up Rory’s mare. The country, the family and most of all Nora had definitely done a number on him.

  Thinking of how excited Rory was going to be when he returned from his trip to the village with Nora and discovered his pony in the stall, Quinn experienced a feeling of satisfaction that was downright paternal.

  He moved on to thinking about having more children. Not that he wasn’t already beginning to think of Rory as his own, but the idea of making babies with his beloved redhead was more than a little appealing.

  Picturing Nora round and ripe with his child had Quinn smiling as he knocked on Kate’s door. The grin instantly faded as he viewed the woman standing in front of him.

  Her face looked as if someone had used it for a punching bag. The flesh was bruised and swollen, unattractive shades of blue and purple. One eye was shut, her upper lip split open. When he saw the purple marks on her neck—an unmistakable imprint of Cadel O’Sullivan’s fingers—a cold fury swept through him.

  “Where are the kids?”

  She looked surprised by that question. “They went with Nora into the village. She promised them ice cream.”

  “Then they weren’t here when the son of a bitch did this to you?”

  “No.” She closed her good eye for a brief moment. “Thank God.”

  “I’ll call Fionna,” he said. “And have her track down Nora and keep the kids while I take you to the hospital.”

  “No!” Kate backed away and held up her hands as if warding him off. “I’ll not be needing to go to any hospital.”

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to judge that.” His eyes skimmed over her, noticing that she wasn’t exactly standing upright. “There’s a good chance you could have a cracked rib or—”

  “I’d know if that were the case. I’ll be fine, Quinn. Really, I just need a little lie-down and—”

  “You need a helluva lot more than that, dammit.” Furious at Cadel O’Sullivan, frustrated by Kate’s continuing denial and concerned for her safety, he dragged a hand through his hair and considered his options. Despite the fact that Kate handled thousand pound horses every day, she was a slender woman who barely came up to his shoulder. It would be a simple matter just to lift her and carry her out to the car.

  The problem with that plan, dammit, was his reluctance to use bodily force. Especially since she’d already suffered too much at the hands of a her brutish husband.

  “At least come with me to Nora’s. Where the family can keep you safe.”

  She seemed to consider that as she gave Quinn a long look. “All right. Let me just get my bankbook. It’s upstairs.”

  Although he didn’t want her to stay here an instant longer than necessary, he nodded and came into the house, leaving the door open so he could keep an eye out for O’Sullivan. When she turned around to leave the room, the first thing that caught Quinn’s attention was the gingerly way she was walking, which wasn’t, he decided grimly, all that surprising. And then he saw the blood on the back of her flowered cotton skirt.

  “Wait a minute.” He caught her arms, carefully, gently, first one, then the other, and eased her down into a chair, noting her grimace. Strangely, rather than muddy his thoughts, his icy rage made his mind as clear as Castlelough crystal. He could kill O’Sullivan. Without hesitation. Without an iota of remorse. “The bastard raped you, didn’t he?”

  She looked away in embarrassment. And, he suspected, shame. “A man can’t rape his wife.”

  Quinn’s response to that was brief and vulgar. Then he said, “All right. We’ll skip the hospital. But I’m calling Dr. Flannery to meet us at the Joyce farm and examine you. It’s important he collect evidence so you can press charges.”

  She sighed wearily and shook her head, looking decades older than the twenty-six Quinn knew her to be. “You’re not in America now, Quinn. Things are different here. And even if I’d be wanting to admit to Sergeant O’Neill what a foolish woman I’ve been to marry such a violent man, he wouldn’t go rushing off to arrest Cadel.”

  Quinn crouched beside the chair, struggling with his gut-wrenching emotions. “Dammit, this isn’t about what you did or didn’t do, or whether you made a mistake by marrying the guy, or staying with him after discovering what he was really like.

  “It’s about a short-tempered bully who gets off on hitting women and kids whenever he feels like it. There’s nothing you’ve done to deserve this, Kate.”

  Her face pale as paper behind the bruises, she’d turned away, pretending interest in the framed painting of three-times British Grand National winner Red Rum hanging on the opposite wall. Quinn put his fingers gently on her chin and turned her face back to his. “You don’t deserve it.”

  She closed her eye again. “I suppose you’re right. And I’ll see Dr. Flannery, but I still won’t call in the Garda. This is a family matter, Quinn. I want to keep it that way.”

  “Fine.” And since he was almost a member of the family, Quinn was more than willing to take the matter into his own hands. “Now, where’s the bankbook?” He made his tone sound calm, almost conversational, designed to conceal his intentions. “I’ll go get it. And whatever other personal belongings you want to take for yourself and the kids.”

  “The bankbook’s taped behind a photograph of Jamie and Brigid on the wall in my bedroom.” She went on to describe where he could find the other things she’d be needing for the brief stay at her sister-in-law’s.

  As he entered the bedroom that looked as if it had been attacked by a horde of vandals, Quinn realized what had set Cadel off. The man had undoubtedly come back looking for money. Money Kate seemed recklessly willing to risk dying to protect. Stepping over the clothes and drawers that had been pulled out of the bureau and dumped onto the floor, he retrieved the blue bankbook, determined to get her out of here as soon as possible.

  Forty minutes later she was lying in the small bed Nora had so recently vacated, sipping a cup of stout tea that a concerned but briskly efficient Fionna had brewed for her, waiting for the doctor to arrive.

  “I don’t understand why you called Michael,” she said to Quinn.

  “I have to go into the village and I’m not about to leave you and Fionna here alone in case your husband comes looking for you.”

  “Ah, isn’t that just like a Yank,” she murmured with a flash
of the wry humor he’d come to admire and enjoy. “Rushing in to play John Wayne.”

  “It’s a dirty job.” Despite the circumstances, he grinned down at her. “But someone’s got to do it.”

  She laughed, as he’d meant her to. Then immediately sobered. “You’re going after Cadel, aren’t you?”

  He considered lying, then figured she’d obviously hear soon enough. “Yeah.”

  “I’m not your responsibility.”

  “You’re family,” he said simply. “And family takes care of its own.”

  He heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel and went downstairs to let in Michael Joyce, who was followed by Dr. Flannery. The doctor, Quinn thought, didn’t look old enough to have graduated from high school, let alone medical school. Quinn wondered if that meant he was getting old and decided it probably did.

  That idea brought up another. That his worst fears—of being too much like his father—were about to be realized. Had it been only this morning that he’d foolishly believed he’d be lucky enough to grow old with the woman he loved? Now there was the unpalatable likelihood that once again, a brutality was about to cost him any chance at happiness.

  But this was no time to be worrying about himself. He’d deal with the fallout of what he was about to do later. First he had a score to settle.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hard Times

  It was raining when Quinn arrived in Castlelough, and not a soft rain, either, but a thick gray drizzle that matched his grim mood. An anger he’d forgotten he could feel was surging through his veins. Memories poured back, filling his mind like smoke, memories of his father’s beatings, his mother’s screams, that horrifying night a nine-year-old boy had leaped onto a brutal man’s back in a futile attempt to stop an assault that had ended with the bottle of gin coming down like a sledgehammer on the back of his mother’s head.