The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  Rylie sulked from the University all the way down the Golden Mile to the Crown. Donovan wanted to tell her it was not an attractive look, but in truth, the way her lips pursed into a pouty frown was actually quite appealing.

  And the fact that he found it so annoyed him no end. Though his annoyance at himself was nothing compared to the slow but deadly burn fueled by every leer McRory cast Rylie’s way. He would be hard-pressed to make it through the evening without boxing the salacious grin off the professor’s face.

  He circled round for fifteen minutes before he finally found a place to park the car. Rylie’s foul mood disintegrated when they reached the Crown. Donovan had to admit that the glittering tiled exterior was impressive, and the scrolled ceiling and patterned floor inside were even more so.

  He hadn’t been to the Crown since he was a teenager. Then, he’d been keen on studying art, and the massive Victorian decorations had left him in awe. Now, Rylie seemed to share his youthful enthusiasm, for she kept turning this way and that in an effort to take in everything. Unfortunately, the place was so crowded that she collided with a pair of old geezers on their way back from the bar. For her own protection, he slid his arm loosely around her waist to guide her.

  So if this was strictly to steer her safely in the right direction, why did sexual attraction zip through him? She didn’t seem to notice, so he kept his arm in place until they reached the long tiled bar. He’d ordered a pot of tea and scones when he spotted McRory and his wife coming through the front door. Gritting his teeth, he waved them over.

  “What a crush,” complained Brenna. “I’m so sorry Rylie, but I don’t see an empty snug in the place. Perhaps we should have a quick cuppa then go elsewhere for an early supper.” “Grand idea,” seconded McRory. “We can go to Callahan’s just round the corner. They have traditional music and dancing.”

  Rylie nodded in agreement though Donovan thought she looked more dazed than pleased. They sat at the bar, the two women in the middle, with him and McRory on opposite ends, an arrangement that suited Donovan. The noise level in the Crown was roughly the same as a busy railway station, so attempts at conversation were limited to shouts, which suited him as well.

  After finishing most of their tea and scones, Rylie and Brenna headed off to the ladies’ room. McRory hung across their empty seats and watched them thread their way through the crowd.

  “Quite a little beauty, she is,” McRory said, gesturing at Rylie’s retreating figure. “Like a Sidhe princess, not much bigger than a child but with looks to drive a man to distraction.” He gave a wicked chuckle. “I’d not object to that one leaving a fairy mark on me.”

  Donovan was hard-pressed not to say something about her having to take a number and queue up. Instead, he just glared. When he didn’t answer, McRory signaled the barkeep for a Guinness. Once the ladies returned, they left within ten minutes.

  Outside, along with the dark, the mist had descended and dangled in wet silvery streamers around the buildings. The professor broke into a lecture about the Victorian architecture and recent history of the city, pointing out examples to accompany his spiel.

  In spite of McRory’s efforts to engage her, Rylie hung back and kept pace with Donovan. Some primitive part of him basked in the triumph, while the more rational part of his brain wondered how this had become a competition. The walk around the block felt as if it took forever, but eventually they reached the lighted sign for Callahan’s mounted over a set of stairs.

  Divided into two large rooms, the pub spread over the basement of a small hotel. One room was for drinking and dining and the other had a dance floor and a small corner stage for entertainment. Since it was early and the music hadn’t started, they settled into a snug on the restaurant half, McRory and his wife on one side of the table, and Donovan and Rylie on the other. Tamping down his primeval urges, Donovan made it a point to be genial. The four of them chatted easily over their meal, with Brenna relating how she’d become interested in genetics and her current project.

  “And what about you, Rylie?” Brenna asked. “You said you were half Polish. Did your mother emigrate from Poland then?”

  “No, my grandparents did.” Rylie answered.

  McRory drained his pint and clanked his glass down on the table. “Now Rylie girl, I’m thinking since ’tis almost Samhain that in truth you’re one of the Sidhe come to take us all back to your fairy mound.”

  “Aren’t you the fanciful one tonight, Aongus,” Brenna observed. “And after only two pints.”

  Fanciful was not Donovan’s interpretation at all.

  From the other room, lively notes from a fiddle and tin whistle filled the air.

  “Ah, the craic is starting,” McRory exclaimed, and at Rylie’s puzzled look added, “That means a good time, darlin’. Let’s go stake out a place in the other room, Donovan, whilst the ladies finish.”

  He slid off the bench and rose to his feet. Reluctantly, Donovan followed, feeling as if the competition to winRylie was about to erupt again. They claimed a U-shaped snug in a corner, and when Rylie and Brenna arrived, Donovan got up to let them sit in the center, Brenna beside her husband and Rylie next to him.

  Point, O’Shea.

  The musicians played individually and as a group. Besides the fiddler, the fellow with the tin whistle also played a wooden Irish flute and the third member played the uillean pipes, an instrument Donovan hadn’t heard in almost twenty years. McRory, the self-proclaimed expert on everything, explained to Rylie how the piper worked them by pressing a device like a bellows with his elbow.

  Everyone in the room seemed infected with the lively tempo of the songs. Next to Donovan, Rylie sipped a glass of white wine, her head swaying with the beat. Donovan even found his foot tapping.

  By the time McRory finished his fourth pint of the evening, he and Brenna got up to dance. They really were a handsome couple. Almost equal in height, they moved easily together through the intricate steps of a spirited jig.

  Donovan couldn’t help but wonder what McRory saw in mousy Sybil Gallagher. Though he didn’t like it, he could understand why the professor would flirt with Rylie. But to his mind, there was no comparison between Brenna and Sybil. McRory was obviously one of those men who felt the need to possess every woman he met. Probably his self-proclaimed Viking heritage. Donovan took a drink of his carbonated cider to wash down the sour taste that thought created.

  The couple returned, and Brenna slid into the booth, panting and laughing. Much to Donovan’s chagrin,McRory grabbed Rylie’s hand. “On your feet, my wee Sidhe princess and dance with me.”

  A panicky look flashed across Rylie’s face. “No, please, I . . . I don’t know how to do all those complicated moves.”

  “Not to worry,” the professor insisted. “I’ll just have a word with the fellas and get them to play a slow song.”

  Major advantage, McRory.

  While an ever-increasing burn moved through Donovan’s diaphragm, McRory approached the musicians. Rylie cast a pleading glance at Brenna, who was fanning herself with a napkin.

  “’Tis all right, give it a go,” the other woman encouraged.

  McRory strolled back, as a long mournful note sounded from the pipes. He held out his hand. “C’mon, darlin’, what do you say?”

  Fighting the rising tide of jealousy that he shouldn’t be feeling, Donovan stood to let Rylie out of the booth. For a fleeting instant, he thought he saw the shadow of a fierce Norse warrior settle over the other man’s countenance. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then, much to his surprise, Rylie clasped his hand instead of McRory’s.

  “I’d rather dance with my brother,” she said pointedly, and towed Donovan toward the middle of the dance floor.

  Stunned, he let her lead him. From the corner of his eye, he saw McRory standing slack-jawed, the disturbing shadow gone.

  The fiddle took up the melody of the stirring ballad, and he placed one hand loosely on Rylie’s waist. However, she stepped close enough so that their bodies bru
shed together, and then she reached up to loop both her hands around his neck. The intimate contact shot a bolt of desire straight to his groin.

  “I swear, if he touches me, I’ll barf,” Rylie murmured as they began swaying with the music.

  Donovan put his other hand around her waist, then lifted his chin so that her head rested under it.

  “If he touches you, I’ll break both his arms,” he whispered into her hair.

  She didn’t reply, just snuggled closer and continued to sway in time with the music. There was no way on God’s green earth she could miss the massive erection growing behind his zipper. Brother indeed! This was far more telling than some stupid DNA test.

  He struggled to think cold thoughts, as in cold shower. On an iceberg. In a blizzard. But the flowery scent of her hair kept intruding, cranking his desire farther into overdrive. With the modern rational part of his brain smothered, the ancient irrational part urged him to carry her upstairs to one of the rooms in the hotel. Claim her as his.

  Rylie lowered her arms and Donovan belatedly realized the music had shifted to a faster tune. He let go of her waist and she took a half step backward.

  “Can we please get out of here?”

  He nodded and steered her in front of him through the maze of dancers, hoping his arousal wasn’t as blatantly obvious as it felt. When they reached the snug, McRory stood up, but Rylie snagged her purse off the bench and positioned herself so that Donovan stood between her and the professor. He dropped his arm protectively around her shoulders.

  And match goes to O’Shea.

  “Thank you so much for everything.” Rylie directed her words at Brenna. “But I’ve had a long day and we need to get going.”

  “’Tis a long way to Ballyneagh,” Brenna answered. “Why don’t you both stay at our place tonight?”

  “Grand idea,” seconded the professor. “We’ve plenty of room.”

  “No.” Donovan found himself replying at the same time as Rylie, then he added, “Thank you, and please don’t go leaving on our account.”

  McRory sat back down, a look of reluctance and something more on his face. Donovan shrugged on his jacket then held Rylie’s for her.

  “Thank you again,” she said to Brenna. “And can you please call me as soon as you have the test results?”

  The older woman smiled with genuine warmth. “To be sure. Safe journey, now.”

  “Safe journey,” echoed the professor, though he sounded considerably less sincere.

  Donovan kept his hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they hiked the three blocks to the car. Rylie didn’t make it easy for him. She walked so close beside him that they were almost touching. He drew in several deep drafts of the chilly night air to try and cool his pesky libido.

  Halfway to the car, Rylie exhaled a white puff of a sigh. “Poor Sybil.”

  “Sybil? You mean Sybil Gallagher?”

  “Yes.” Rylie shook her head in dismay. “I knew McRory wouldn’t leave his wife for her, but now that I’ve met Brenna, it’s so painfully obvious.”

  Her tenderness and compassion for the other woman surprised Donovan. He would have expected more sympathy for McRory’s wronged wife. That was definitely where his own allegiance lay.

  Quelling his automatic response to call the professor a choice name, he cleared his throat and spoke carefully. “Not all men are like McRory, you know.”

  “I know, but enough are.” Her tone sounded flat and her face was unreadable in the dark. “I just feel bad for her . . . for both of them.”

  They reached the car at last, and he held the passenger door for her.

  “Do you want to stop at Starbucks again?” she asked.

  Donovan shook his head. “We really should get going. This fog is likely to get worse before it gets better.”

  Traffic wasn’t nearly so bad driving out of the city, but his prediction came true far too soon. The mist grew heavier the farther away they got from Belfast. The main motorway was well lighted, but took them by a longer route, and too late, Donovan realized the fuel gauge was dipping toward empty. With a nagging unease gnawing at his subconscious, he turned off the main road onto the country lane that was a shorter way to Ballyneagh.

  “So tell me about The Sight,” Rylie popped up suddenly, breaking the heavy silence that permeated the car.

  “I don’t—”

  “Please?” The sincerity of her tone disarmed him.

  “I don’t know where to start.” Donovan hedged as he down shifted the car into a lower gear on the bumpy, fog-enshrouded road.

  “Have you always had it?”

  “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Does your sister have it?”

  “Not that she ever told me.” And he was quite sure if Doreen had ever experienced one of his visions, she’d have gone straight to a priest to demand an exorcism.

  “But your mother had it, didn’t she?” When he didn’t answer, she heaved a frustrated sigh, “Please tell me, Donovan. I really want to know, to understand.”

  Like she could.

  Still, if she hung around the pub long enough, the old-timers would tell her tales of crazy Moira Mullins. Maybe she should hear something closer to the truth.

  He gripped the steering wheel hard and spoke through clenched teeth. “When my mother was fourteen, she was hospitalized for hallucinations. The doctors thought she’d taken drugs, LSD or something, but of course they could find no traces.” Donovan felt his heart accelerate with the bitter memories, but now that he’d started he might as well finish. “They sent her home, but the hallucinations kept coming back, so back to hospital she’d go. This went on until she turned eighteen and moved herself to Belfast, where she met my father.”

  “But why did they go back to Ballyneagh?” Rylie asked quietly.

  “They had no choice. My father lost his job and they had nowhere else to go. My sister was an infant, so Mum couldn’t work. Plus The Troubles were bad in Belfast at that point. You know, the IRA and that lot.” Lynch’s voice mail message replayed inside his head, and he wondered what, if anything, his father really knew about the Provos, the Provisional Irish Republican Army.

  Ghosts of old memories played on the edges of his mind, half-remembered arguments between his mother and father. Mum sending him and Doreen off across the fields before someone arrived. “Connacht devil,” his mother had said . . .

  Something flashed out of the mist directly in front of the car. No ghost or wraith, but a very real sheep.

  Donovan jerked the wheel sharply to avoid a collision, the heel of his hand hitting the horn. Rylie gave a garbled cry that blended with the squeal of the brakes. The car lurched then pitched to one side, sliding off the pavement and into the ditch.

  Chapter 7

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” DONOVAN GASPED AS THE CAR engine choked off, and the sheep scampered out of the range of the headlights.

  “Y-yes,” Rylie shakily replied. “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  Neither airbag had deployed, so that was a good sign. However, the passenger’s side of the car slanted down at a precipitous angle while the driver’s side slanted up. Definitely not good.

  With a muffled curse, Donovan unbuckled his seat belt and turned off the motor, but kept the headlamps on. Then he wrestled open his door. Both wheels on his side were a good six inches off the ground. Muttering more curses under his breath, he walked in front of the car to survey the scene.

  Mud sucked at the soles of his shoes and oozed up the sides. The front passenger’s side tire nestled on the bottom of the shallow ditch, muddy water lapping just below the hubcap.

  Dandy! Just fecking dandy!

  He tromped around and found the same situation with the back tire. The bloody perfect ending to the day. He knew he wouldn’t be able to budge the vehicle, but he jumped and threw his weight onto the front fender anyway. It sagged down into the wheel well, but nothing more. He cast about for something to wedge under the wheels but could see nothing
for the blasted fog.

  Rylie rolled down her window and called out, “Can I help?”

  “No, stay put. ’Tis a muddy mess out here.” He tried to stamp the worst of the muck off his shoes, but it stuck stubbornly.

  She crawled over the console into the driver’s seat and cracked open the door. “Maybe if we both tried?”

  Donovan shook his head. “Trust me, we need to call a tow truck.”

  The door clicked shut and he heard her rummaging in the glove box. He stamped his feet again and extracted his mobile phone from his pocket. A moment later, she jumped out of the car and handed him a packet of papers.

  “Here’s the rental contract and stuff. I think there’s a number for roadside assistance.”

  He walked up to shuffle through the papers in the glare of the headlights. After a couple of minutes, he located the number and placed the call. Rylie stood beside him, arms wrapped around herself, her breath coming out in little white puffs that matched the surrounding fog.

  “It’s cold out here!” she exclaimed when he’d rung off.

  “Let’s get back in the car and run the heat,” Donovan replied. “It’ll take them at least an hour to find us.”

  They climbed back inside and Donovan started the engine, put on the emergency flashers and the heater. However, ten minutes later, just when the interior had reached a cozy warmth, the fuel light came on.

  “What is it?” Rylie asked when he muttered a curse.

  “Low on petrol,” Donovan replied, turning off the engine. “We don’t want to run out because it makes a bloody shambles of the fuel injectors.”

  “Oh,” she said, and turned to brace her back against the door so that she faced him. “Guess we don’t want that.”

  “Not if we can help it.” He reclined his own seat back a bit farther and tried to get comfortable. “Don’t worry, they should be here soon.”

  But a half-hour later, no one had arrived and the temperature inside the car was growing uncomfortably chilly. Donovan restarted the engine and ran the heat for ten more minutes. He’d just shut off the ignition again when his mobile rang. The dispatcher apologetically explained that the driver had been unable to locate them in the thick fog and that it wasn’t safe to keep looking.