The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  Before he could curse himself for a fool, a sudden inspiration struck. “Didn’t Professor McRory say his wife specialized in DNA? Maybe she could do the test more quickly.”

  Rylie’s head snapped up, and hope colored her cheeks. “Do you think we can talk her into it?”

  Another recollection made Donovan snort. “I think you’d have no trouble talking the professor into anything.”

  “Like I would,” Rylie said with an enormous roll of her eyes. “Besides, that won’t score any points with his wife.”

  “You’re right, I’m afraid.” Seeing her disdain for McRory gave his ego a healthy boost. “So I guess it’s up to me then.”

  He pulled out his mobile, which showed three voicemail messages. Ignoring them, he found McRory’s number and punched it in, then walked over to a quiet corner of the entrance so that his conversation couldn’t be overheard. Though she shifted her feet in anticipation, Rylie hung back a discrete distance.

  McRory answered on the second ring, and after exchanging greetings, Donovan came directly to the point. “I need to ask a favor.”

  When it came down to sharing the details with the professor, Donovan experienced a momentary stab of regret over his hasty decision. Something in him didn’t like McRory, and not just because he was cheating on his wife. But there was no help for it now. Taking a deep breath, he laid out the essentials as briefly as possible.

  “’T would be bloody bad luck if the lovely lass turned out to be your sister,” McRory mused with an undertonethat set Donovan’s teeth on edge. “I can see how you’d want to clear that up soon as you could.”

  Biting back a pithy retort, Donovan asked, “Since your wife is an expert on DNA, would she be willing to run the tests?”

  “I expect she would, especially if you and your father were willing to be part of her study. She’s doing extensive research that tracks DNA on the male chromosome.” McRory gave a lecherous chuckle. “She tries to recruit every man she meets. Fortunately, ’tis only a swab of the cheek that she needs.”

  A true case of the pot and the kettle.

  “Could we bring the samples to her today?” Donovan asked instead.

  “That’d be grand. I’ll be working on reports all day and the break will be welcome. Can you get here by tea time?”

  At Donovan’s affirmative, they settled on a meeting time and place. McRory gave him directions and assured him that his wife would run the tests.

  Just as Donovan was about to ring off, McRory asked, “Did Inspector Lynch get hold of you yet? Seems they’ve already identified the body from his remaining finger prints.”

  “Not yet.” One of those missed calls was undoubtedly the inspector. “So the man must have been in one of their databases. Was he some sort of criminal?”

  “Indeed, a most nasty sort,” the professor replied, sounding a bit smug. “A member of the old IRA splinter group the Provos. Lynch said his name was Malachy Flynn.”

  “Never heard of him or the Provos.” Both mercifully true.

  But McRory wasn’t quite ready to let it go. “Apparently during the heyday of The Troubles, the Provos were quite active in County Armagh, with a lot of local supporters. Lynch seems to think your father might have been one of them.”

  “My father was never in the IRA,” Donovan quickly denied.

  “Well, ’twas all a very long time ago, wasn’t it?” McRory said a bit too smoothly. “See you and the lovely Rylie at four.” And he rang off.

  Chapter 6

  BY THE TIME DONOVAN LIMPED UP IN THEMORRIS, RYLIE’S rented car sat at the curb in front of the Ballyneagh pub. He turned beside the bakery and parked around back. Inside the pub, Rylie sat in the snug closest to the window, waiting for him.

  “Here’s our boyo now!” Gerry Partlan announced to the half-dozen patrons, who all craned their necks in Donovan’s direction. “A spot to eat for you and the pretty wan?”

  The smell of lentil soup wafting in from the kitchen reminded Donovan that he’d skipped breakfast. Reining in his annoyance he answered, “Fine, Gerry. Thanks.”

  While the publican scurried into the kitchen, Donovan ducked behind the bar and pulled two bottles of mineral water from the fridge under the counter. He could feel every eye in the place watch his progress as he crossed the floor to join Rylie. Dressed in a purple v-neck sweater and khaki trousers, she sipped from a glass of soda. Back at Holy Family, he hadn’t noticed what she wore, or that several strands of her hair loosely framed her face. His pulse stuttered when she looked up at him.

  He plunked the bottles of water in the center of the table and slid onto the padded bench across from her. “I thought we should have lunch before we go to Queen’s.” “Good idea,” she said, then watched Gerry Partlan wend his way toward them with two bowls of soup, a heap of champ, and soda bread arranged on a tray.

  The portly bartender set the food down with a flourish, his eyes flicking between them with a speculative gleam. “And what else might the two of you be needin’?”

  “Nothing else, thanks,” Donovan replied. When Gerry showed no signs of leaving, he added, “But Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Sheridan appear to need your assistance.”

  Taking the hint, Partlan ambled off. Rylie’s stiff posture visibly relaxed. They ate in silence, not looking at one another until their hands knocked together when they both reached for the last piece of bread.

  “I’ll just split it.” Donovan tore the bread into two roughly equal if ragged hunks.

  Rylie murmured her thanks, smeared on some butter and quickly finished her potatoes. Momentarily mesmerized by the movement of her alluring mouth, Donovan realized he was staring and gave himself a mental slap. He polished off his own bread in two large bites then gulped down the last of his water.

  “All set then?”

  Rylie nodded and he rose and held her bright yellow rain jacket for her.

  “I have your sweatshirt in the Morris.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, remembering why she’d left it behind. “Shall I go get it?”

  She shook her head. Her tightly pressed lips told him she was thinking the same thing.

  “Later,” she murmured, and handed him the keys to her car.

  They reached the front door the same time as Ballyneagh’s two chief matrons. Donovan held the door for Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Sheridan.

  “Going sightseeing, then?” Mrs. Sheridan asked, giving first Rylie and then him a measuring glance.

  Mustering up his most charming smile, Donovan nodded. “Belfast.”

  “A pity it’s still raining,” said Mrs. Cassidy, also eyeing both of them. “But you’ll have a splendid time to be sure.”

  “Splendid,” Donovan repeated with a tad too much enthusiasm.

  Mrs. Cassidy raised one eyebrow before she and her friend turned and walked toward the grocer’s. As Donovan held the car door for Rylie, he saw the two women pause in front of the barbershop, heads together, twittering. Yet another thing he hated about small town Irish life. Everyone within a ten-kilometer radius would be discussing his and Rylie’s excursion to Belfast by supper. He slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the car door.

  “Splendid,” Rylie cooed in a perfect echo of him.

  They both laughed.

  In spite of the persistent rain, the drive to Belfast passed pleasantly. To Rylie’s relief, Donovan appeared to be unperturbed by her visit to Dermot and the DNA test. He never brought it up, so neither did she.

  Instead they stayed on neutral, congenial topics. He talked about the culture shock he’d experienced when he first moved to America. Then he did a sidesplitting rendition of his Uncle Izzy’s Jersey accent and contrasted it to Gerry Partlan’s leprechaun brogue.

  When she finally stopped laughing, Rylie took her turn at doing her best gum snapping, Valley girl imitations of her old classmates. Then she entertained him with some gross dentistry stories, and he admitted that being a CPA paled in comparison. By the time the tall brick and stone buildings of Belfast appeared
on the horizon, they felt like old friends. At least on the surface.

  Rylie hadn’t ventured closer than the Belfast airport when she’d arrived, and the city proved to be a noisy maze of winding streets, congested traffic, and Old World architecture. Within a few minutes of entering the city proper, Rylie felt thankful Donovan was driving. No way could she have negotiated her way through the mess. In the rain. And on the wrong side of the road to boot! She readily expressed her gratitude.

  Donovan flashed one of his dazzling smiles. “I’ll let you reward me with a small libation.”

  Before she could protest that he didn’t drink, he made an abrupt left turn that robbed her of breath. Then he whipped the car down a narrow side street and nosed it into a parking space. She grabbed her purse and hurried after him. He stood on the corner, pointing across the street.

  “There it is!” He cried. “Nectar of the gods.”

  She stared at a familiar green awning.

  Starbucks.

  Amid much kidding and laughter, she ordered herself a cappuccino and him the largest cup of dark roast they sold.

  “Yanks,” muttered the multi-tattooed barista as he gave Rylie her change.

  “Ulster forever, Connacht never,” Donovan retorted in what sounded like only a half-joking tone.

  When they reached the car, he explained, “Two of the five kingdoms of Ancient Ireland. Deadly enemies.”

  Rylie decided not to ask how he knew the barista was from Connacht.

  She’d just finished her cappuccino when they arrived at Queen’s University. Donovan drove around the stately red brick buildings for ten minutes until he found a parking spot. “At least the rain has stopped,” he observed, as they got out of the car and hiked across the wet grass.

  As they had prearranged, Professor McRory waited for them in the lobby of the building they entered. He clapped Donovan on the back and kissed her on both cheeks in greeting, a gesture she had no intention of returning. The moment she’d realized that McRory was married and also messing around with Sybil Gallagher, all Rylie could see was his smarmy nature.

  “My wife’s lab is on the second story,” he said, motioning toward the staircase. “She’s expecting us.”

  With McRory leading the way, Rylie stuck close behind Donovan. If her probable half-brother noticed, he gave no indication. He took a couple more gulps of his coffee, and set the over-sized paper cup on the edge of the ash can next to the door at the top of the stairs.

  “Hard to believe the two of you are related,” McRory said.

  “We’re not,” Donovan answered in a tone that dared anyone to disagree.

  Of course, Rylie couldn’t help but rise to the challenge. “Guess we’ll find out.”

  McRory looked far too pleased at her sassy response as he rapped on a glass-paned door.

  “Indeed we shall.” He opened the door and called out, “Here we are, darlin’.” Then gestured Rylie and Donovan inside.

  Dressed in a white lab coat, a tall woman with a single red braid down her back turned to greet them.

  “I’m Dr. Brenna Murphy McRory.” Laugh lines webbed the corners of her golden brown eyes when she smiled and extended a latex-gloved hand. “Oh, sorry.” She snapped off the glove and offered her hand again. “You must be Rylie and Donovan O’Shea.”

  “Rylie Powell,” Rylie corrected, shaking her hand.

  “At least until we find out differently,” McRory interjected.

  Donovan shot the professor a withering glare, then stuck out his own hand. “Charmed to meet you, Dr. Murphy McRory.” His voice was chilly in its formality.

  “Brenna, please,” insisted McRory’s wife.

  She looked five or six years older than her husband, which would put her in her early forties. Roughly twice Sybil Gallagher’s age. Time for a new model? Rylie bit her lower lip to keep from sneering at McRory.

  “Charmed, Brenna.” Donovan repeated, his tone still bordering on glacial.

  “I really appreciate you doing this,” Rylie jumped in to avoid an awkward silence. “It’s just that I’m only here for ten more days, and I’d really like to know . . . ” She could feel Donovan’s disapproving gaze and her voice trailed away.

  Brenna McRory’s golden eyes flicked between Donovan and her. “Yes, Aongus explained your—situation.” She cleared her throat. “In spite of what you see on American telly, paternity tests aren’t a simple matter of yes or no. A series of genetic markers must be identified and compared.”

  Rylie could feel her hopes plummeting as Brenna McRory spoke. “How long does that take?”

  “Oh, only a day or two,” the older woman reassured. “I’ve all my equipment set up and I was preparing a batch of specimens for my own research project. I’ve isolated a specific genetic marker and tied it back to the Irish High King, Niall of the Nine Hostages.”

  “He was the original forefather of the O’Neill clan,” the professor interrupted his wife. “And quite a prolific old carouser.” He cast a sly glance at Donovan. “I’d say our Donovan would be a good subject to include in your study, Brenna. With his dark hair and blue eyes, he appears to be the only true Celt amongst us. I don’t have the marker myself.” He brushed at his sandy brown hair and added, “Too much Viking blood.”

  “I don’t mind being part of your study,” Rylie quickly volunteered. “Even though I know I’m half Polish.”

  “A most kind offer,” said McRory’s wife. “But I’m afraid this marker is gender specific, found only on the male chromosome.”

  “I’ll be happy to volunteer.” Donovan’s crossed arms and stiff stance belied his words, but he added, “And since you’ll already be testing my father’s DNA, you might as well include him in your data.”

  Brenna smiled beatifically. “I’m most appreciative. The more data I collect, the more indisputable my findings.” She pulled on a fresh latex glove and extracted a sterile swab from its blister pack. “I just need to swipe the inside of your cheek.”

  Uncrossing his arms, Donovan leaned down and opened his mouth. As Dr. McRory stuck the swab inside, Rylie experienced an uncomfortable flash from last night, of the feel of Donovan’s tongue, the warm smoothness inside his mouth. Hot blood rising in her face, she turned quickly away and pretended to study the equipment in the lab. The only thing she recognized was a centrifuge. An unexpected tap on her arm startled her.

  “If you’ll be so kind as to give me the other samples,” Brenna said, an astute gleam in her whiskey-colored eyes. “I shall have all of them prepped in a few minutes. Then we can go to tea.”

  Feeling foolish, Rylie pulled the plastic bag from her purse and handed it to the other woman. At the same time, Donovan’s cell phone rang. Flipping it open, he frowned.

  “Sorry, I need to take this,” he apologized, and slipped out the door into the hallway.

  Rylie fought the urge to follow him. With Donovan out of the room and Brenna engrossed in her DNA samples, she was left alone, facing the professor. His toothy grin looked lecherous.

  “So tell me about Niall of the Nine Hostages,” she said, seeking a diversion.

  “Ah, yes, Niall Noigíallach,” the professor pronounced the name with ease. “That’s what he’s called in the mother tongue. He was High King around the middle of the fifth century. Legend says he kept the peace by taking high-born hostages from each of the five king doms of Ireland as well as the Scots, Saxons, Britons, and French.”

  Obviously enjoying his subject, McRory droned on about Niall’s prowess in battle and the disputed location of his death. Leaning against the nearest counter, Rylie pretended to listen, but her eyes kept flicking to the door in hopes that Donovan would reappear.

  “Brenna’s studies indicate that as many as fifteen to twenty per cent of all the men in Ireland carry the Niall marker,” the professor continued. “That many descendants puts him second only to Genghis Khan in proliferation.”

  That explained why McRory admired the guy. Rylie’s sardonic thoughts were interrupted by D
onovan’s return. He walked up, scowl firmly in place. At the sight of him, Rylie’s stomach did a funny little flip that felt anything but sisterly. She would soon know for sure.

  McRory’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Inspector Lynch?”

  “My sister,” Donovan replied shortly. “Ready to go?” To Rylie’s relief, he stepped between her and the professor.

  “I thought we’d take Rylie to tea at the Crown Liquor Saloon,” McRory cut in smoothly before she could answer. “’Tis quite something to see. Brenna will be finished directly and we can all go in the same car.”

  “I know where it is,” Donovan countered. “We’ll meet you there.”

  For a brief second, a shadow passed over the professor’s smiling countenance, but he quickly said, “Grand.” Then he called over his shoulder, “Brenna, darlin’, are you ready? We’re all going to the Crown.”

  “Another minute,” she called back.

  “Meet you at the bar,” Donovan said, and headed for the door.

  Thankful for the rescue, Rylie broke into a jog to keep up with him. They reached the bottom of the stairs before she finally got a chance to speak. “Was your sister calling about this DNA thing?”

  Donovan gave a sketchy nod, which didn’t seem like a good sign.

  “Was she mad—upset, I mean?”

  “She wasn’t happy, but I expect she’ll get over it.”

  He held the door and they walked outside. Even though it was still afternoon, the light was fading rapidly. In place of the rain, a heavy mist hung low, and the grounds of the University resembled an old atmospheric movie set. She battled the urge to call her brooding companion Heathcliff.

  Instead, when they were in the car she asked, “Will I be able to meet your sister?”

  He pulled the car out of its parking space and onto the road. Still not looking at her, he answered, “I don’t see any reason for you to.”

  Rylie opened her mouth to make a terse retort, then thought better of it. Tossing her head, she stared out the side window and muttered, “Whatever.”