The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  Dermot gave one of his half-nods, but the creases in his forehead remained as he struggled again to form words.

  “S-s-surrah,” he finally managed to apologize, pushing at the tray table.

  “Don’t worry, everything will be all right now,”

  Donovan reassured. “Shall I help you back to bed?”

  Dermot nodded again, and Donovan helped him stand. Then, the old man tottered the few steps to his bed, and again, with Donovan’s help, settled into it. Donovan raised the rail back into place, then in response to his father’s grunting and gestures, cranked up the head of the bed.

  “All set then?”

  But when Donovan turned to go, Dermot grabbed his sleeve again.

  “Boh,” he entreated. His mouth worked and his face reddened as he tried to make his slack facial muscles move. Donovan stood by helplessly and watched his father’s mute struggle, felt his frustration when he saw the tears once again glittering in Dermot’s pale eyes.

  “Luv you, Boh,” the old man finally whispered.

  Breath catching in his throat, Donovan dropped his eyes to the floor and squeezed the gnarled fingers of his father’s good hand.

  His voice came out a raspy croak, “I love you too, Da.”

  He hurried out the door without looking back.

  When he got to the Morris, he pulled out his mobile and called Rylie’s B&B. His hand shook as he punched in the number. The manager answered and after he identified himself and asked for Rylie, she told him Miss Powell departed early and hadn’t returned. He left his mobile number and asked to have her call as soon as she did come back.

  “Another apology, is it?” the woman asked tartly.

  “No,” Donovan sputtered, taken aback. “But I’ve something important to give her.”

  “Do ya, now?” The manager drew the question out in a way that set his teeth on edge.

  He tried to make his tone as business-like as possible. “Yes, so I’d really appreciate a call back.” Then he thanked her and rang off.

  His father’s letter felt like a live coal in his pocket as he drove away. Though he resisted the urge to read it, he decided to stop at the B&B on his way back to Ballyneagh. And if Rylie wasn’t there? He ran a debate with himself whether or not to leave the letter. But he still hadn’t made up his mind when he arrived at the stately brick manor home that had been converted to the nicest B&B in the Dungannon area.

  Fortunately, as he entered the circular drive, his mobile rang. Hastily he pulled the car over and answered.

  “Donovan? It’s Rylie.” Her voice sounded a bit breathless, but at the same time guarded. “I just walked in the door. What’s up?”

  The sound of her voice, especially her saying his name, sent a little ripple of pleasure down his spine. Bloody hell! He was like a schoolboy with a crush.

  He cleared his throat, “Yes, I just arrived myself from Armagh. I’m right outside.” He got out of the car and waved toward the front window, still talking. “I’ve a letter for you from Dermot. I promised to bring it straight away.”

  Donovan saw a middle-aged woman twitch aside the curtains while Rylie spoke. “Dermot? Is he . . . Is he okay?”

  Before he could answer, he heard her make a small impatient sound, and then she said, “I’ll be right out.” And rang off.

  He’d scarcely shoved the mobile back into his pocket when she rushed out the front door, wearing the bright yellow jacket and dark jeans. The sight of her sent another of those annoying little ripples skittering across his nervous system.

  Shite.

  He reined in his over-active libido and resisted the urge to kiss her cheeks in greeting. Instead, he slipped the offending envelope from his pocket to her hand.

  “Here. Get in.”

  Obediently, she slid into the passenger’s seat of the Morris, her gaze riveted to the envelope. He reached into the back seat and handed her the red hooded sweatshirt.

  “This is yours, too.”

  She was still staring at the envelope when he got into the Morris and started it. “Did you read it?”

  “Of course not.” Donovan bit back the urge to say, “Open the damn thing!” and edged the car to the end of the driveway.

  Her face looked unusually pale, and dark smudges of fatigue stained the skin beneath her eyes. After his night in the fens, he expected he looked much the same, but wondered why she did. Then his rumbling stomach reminded him that he’d eaten nothing but two measly pieces of toast all day.

  “Let’s go to tea, or an early supper, shall we?”

  “Okay, just a minute.”

  She slid her finger under the folded flap of the envelope and took out a single sheet of lined tablet paper. Donovan couldn’t stop himself from leaning over to see. Emitting a strangled cough, she splayed her free hand over her eyes. The hand holding the paper shook, but he could read the large, scrawled words:

  UR father Christy Reilly

  My cousin

  a Provo

  in prison

  Sorry

  Donovan didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Sympathy? Doubt? All those and more surged through him at the sight of the words. He felt the wave of shock roll off Rylie as the paper dropped into her lap and landed on top of the sweatshirt. Her hand fell from her face to her throat, and the pain in her gray eyes stabbed right into his chest.

  Her voice came out thick with tears. “Did . . . Did you know . . . ?”

  He shook his head, touched her shoulder. “Please, Rylie . . . ”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, her hand clenching the neckband of her T-shirt in a death grip. “Do you think it’s true?” “Yes.” Then at her flinch of reaction, he quickly recanted. “I—I don’t know.”

  The engine of the Morris spluttered and died. Getting a firm grip on himself, Donovan restarted it and prepared to turn out onto the main roadway.

  Before he did, he shot her another quick glance. “Do you want something stronger than tea?”

  “I . . . Maybe.” She met his questioning gaze with eyes still swimming in doubt and anguish. “Can we just go to your place?”

  “Are you sure you want to?”

  Bottom lip caught in her teeth, she nodded then picked up the note again. She stared silently at it all the way back to Ballyneagh.

  Donovan parked the Morris close to the back door of the pub and they managed to slip inside unseen. However, the noise from the main room testified that, in spite of tea time being almost over, business was brisk. Obviously Rylie wanted to keep her presence unknown, since she headed straight for the stairs.

  “So what’ll it be? Wine, beer, whiskey?”

  “Just tea will be fine,” she replied. “But I’d love a sandwich or something. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “Neither have I, so I’ll find some food while you put on the kettle.” He tossed her his wad of keys, which she caught in mid-air.

  “Thanks,” she said, and disappeared up the stairs.

  Rylie pitched her hoodie and the repugnant note onto the couch and hurried into the kitchen. The teakettle sat on the counter, unplugged but half full of water.

  Donovan’s mug sat next to it with an inch of cold tea stillin the bottom. She put it in the sink, added more water to the kettle, and plugged it in all the while trying to ignore the distressing commentary running through her head.

  Her father really was a criminal. An IRA terrorist who may have committed all kinds of unspeakable acts. And the worst thing of all was that he’d taken a different identity. Lived a lie the entire time he was in America. With her mother. With her. It had all been a sham.

  She battled back the cold, sick feeling rising from the pit of her stomach by telling herself it didn’t matter. Besides, was it really that different from Dermot O’Shea? The man she’d believed to be her father once worked for the IRA too. He’d deceived his family, given his cousin his identity. And who knew what else? She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands to blot out the image of the white-haired man with the
fierce scowl. The words he’d typed clung stubbornly in her mind: I luved Moira.

  How was that possible? Could you truly love someone when your heart was morally corrupt? Better not start down that slippery slope. Too many ugly things littered the path. Joel Davis and Aongus McRory to name two.

  She stumbled out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the bathroom where she splashed cold water on her face. Blotting her cheeks with the hand towel, Rylie stared into the mirror. The gray eyes that stared back seemed to belong to a stranger, someone she didn’t know at all. She had come to Ireland seeking the answers to who she was. But now she felt more lost than ever.

  The front door rattled and she stepped into the livingroom as Donovan came inside carrying a steaming tray. His expression looked tight with worry.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, smoothly kicking the door shut behind him.

  She passed one hand across her eyes before she answered honestly, “I don’t know.”

  His frown deepened. “Rylie, I swear I didn’t—”

  The whistling teakettle cut off his words. Mutely she followed him into the kitchen and watched as he set the tray in the center of the table, then began to fix the tea. His large capable hands moved with swift skill measuring and pouring.

  “Eat some shepherd’s pie,” he said over his shoulder while he opened the cupboard. “You’ll feel better.”

  Rylie stood silently watching for another long moment. Shepherd’s pie and tea weren’t what she needed. She needed him.

  “Donovan, please,” she entreated, wincing inwardly at her whimpering tone. “Just hold me.”

  The cupboard door thunked shut as he turned to face her, and she walked into the welcoming circle of his arms. She pulled herself close, her own arms around his waist, and laid her head against his chest. The strong, steady beating of his heart under her ear felt comforting in a way she’d never experienced before. For the first time in a very long time she felt safe. She swayed with the realization and his grip tightened.

  “None of it matters,” he whispered into her hair. “It doesn’t change who you really are.”

  Rylie pulled back to search his handsome face. “You don’t know who I really am.”

  “I know enough,” he countered. Then his lips covered hers.

  Warm and soft at first, his tongue began a gentle exploration of her mouth. But when she answered him with eager abandon, the kiss grew possessive, demanding. She molded herself against the hard planes of his body and moaned her answer.

  After another heady moment, Donovan broke the kiss, panting. “No regrets?”

  “Only if you stop now,” she replied, and reached for him again.

  His killer smile gleamed as he dodged around the table. “Wee minx,” he murmured. Then with one deft movement, he shoved the tray of food into the fridge. “We may want this later.”

  She giggled. “Much later, Mr. Practical.”

  “Much later,” he agreed.

  And the next moment, he swooped her off her feet, one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees.

  She gave an involuntary squeak of surprise, then gasped, “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “With a wee little thing like you?” he scoffed as he carried her through the living room. “Not likely.”

  Rylie busied herself undoing the buttons on his shirt, but her fingers fumbled with excitement. She’d only managed to unbutton three when he set her on the bed.

  While she eagerly toed off her sneakers, Donovan divested himself of his shirt and T-shirt. She practically came just seeing his bare chest. He really was that gorgeous, all lean hard muscles and ridged abs.

  No CPA ever looked so good!

  Panting, she yanked her sweater over her head and flung it on the floor, then ripped open the snap and zipper of her jeans, peeling them down her legs. Still smiling, he knelt in front of her and pulled the annoying jeans the rest of the way off. She grasped his forearms and hauled him toward her for another mind-numbing kiss.

  While her tongue greedily invaded the moist interior of his mouth, her fingers unbuckled his belt and worked open the fly of his wool trousers. When she brushed the hard length of his arousal, he broke away with a sharp intake of breath.

  “Slow down,” he hissed, rummaging in the drawer of the nightstand with one hand. “I’ve only one condom.”

  “Poor planning on your part,” she teased, pulling his pants around his knees.

  “So shall I run down to the corner and buy some more then?” he mocked, stepping out of his slacks.

  She suppressed a giggle at his very proper blue and white pinstriped boxers. “Don’t you dare.”

  “I thought not.”

  His boxers joined his pants on the floor as he bore her backward onto the middle of the bed, which creaked noisily under their combined weight. While Donovan’s beautiful lips claimed hers again, his busy fingers sent her bra and underwear to the floor with the rest of their clothes.

  Rylie’s body hummed with the need to have him inside her. Now. Twisting her mouth from his, she snatched the foil packet from his hand and ripped it open. As he massaged her breasts, she climbed astride his thighs and smoothed the condom over his impressive erection.

  “Sweet saints in heaven,” he groaned, falling against the squeaky mattress.

  She intended to tease him a little, but found she couldn’t wait. She wanted him so badly that instead of easing slowly, the moment she touched herself to him, she plunged down on his full, hard length. Intense pleasure ripped through her, destroying all her coherent thoughts and inhibitions. She rode him hard, the sweet promise of release shimmering on the edge of her consciousness.

  “Oh God, Rylie,” he rasped.

  Then he let go of her breasts and wrapped his hands around her hips. Before she could protest, he flipped her under him, thrusting into her once. Twice. She encircled his waist with her legs and met his next thrust with her own, shattering into the throes of orgasm. A moment later, she felt him join her.

  Donovan shifted away from the enticing contours of Rylie’s bottom, snuggled intimately against him in the narrow confines of his bed. In the past few hours, they’d brought each other to completion two more times with hands and mouths. First they’d been in the shower after a session of eating scones and jam in bed had gotten completely out of hand. The bathroom had suffered an even worse fate, with water and sodden towels everywhere.

  Libidos momentarily sated, they’d partially dressed and gone into the kitchen to heat up the shepherd’s pie. Quickly dispatching that, they’d eventually gorged themselves with every edible thing in the cupboard. A short nap had left them so invigorated that their next go round threatened to knock plaster from the walls. In retrospect, he imagined everyone in the pub below probably heard them.

  One more time would undoubtedly be his complete ruin, though certain parts of his anatomy stirred with a differing opinion. Glancing at the illuminated bedside clock, Donovan reluctantly hauled his arse out of bed and pulled on his rumpled boxers. Smears of jam decorated the front of his T-shirt so he tossed it into the corner and opened the bureau drawer for a clean one.

  Behind him, the bed springs creaked and Rylie’s sleep muffled voice asked, “Why are you getting dressed?”

  “So I can take you back to Dungannon before we both turn into pumpkins.”

  Donning the fresh T-shirt, he turned and steeled for her protest. The dim light from the living room shone just enough for him to watch her stretch languidly, the coverlet slipping below one pert nipple. He bit his lower lip to stifle a groan.

  “Any other time, I’d want to stay,” she admitted. “But this is the noisiest, lumpiest bed I’ve ever slept in.”

  Then she threw off the covers and amidst the sound of more metal grating, rolled to the side of the mattress, exquisite in her nakedness. Whatever clever thing he’d been about to say dried in Donovan’s constricted throat, and her husky chuckle made something far more complicated than simple lust pound through his
veins.

  “Oh, my mistake,” she continued, eyeing the growing tent of his boxers. “I guess not all the lumps were the bed.” She picked up her panties and twirled them around with her index finger. “So what is it the locals say? One more quick shag before we hit the road?”

  “Shag is English slang,” he replied haughtily, picking his crumpled trousers off the floor. “And if you don’t put on those knickers straight away, I’ll be beating down the door of the pharmacy and then where will we be?”

  “In a right feckin’ mess?” she asked innocently, then burst into a gale of laughter that he couldn’t help but echo.

  At five minutes before midnight, Donovan kicked his trousers into the heap of dirty clothes in the corner, sighed and fell backward onto the mattress in a raucous chorus of squeaking springs. His bed was nearly wrecked, the loo flooded, and the cupboard bare, but the scent of Rylie’s hair lingered on the pillowcase.

  He’d never felt better in his entire life.

  Much later, the jangling of his mobile awakened him from a sound sleep. He squinted against the sunlight streaming in the window and saw that it was a quarter past eight.

  Could Rylie be up and about already?Wanton little minx.

  He smiled in spite of the muzziness clouding his head and answered the phone.

  “Donovan? Did I wake you?” asked an unfamiliar female voice. “Oh, no! So very sorry to call this early. ’Tis Brenna, Brenna McRory.”

  “Brenna,” he repeated. Then the tinge of urgency in her tone registered in his brain, and he shook his head to clear the fog of sleep. “Is something wrong?”

  “Did you see or talk to Aongus yesterday? He wasn’t in his office all day and he didn’t come home last night.”

  “Sorry, no.” Donovan stood, and then squirmed when his feet hit the cold floor. The image of Professor McRory and Sybil Gallagher flashed across his mind.

  “Did he say he’d be in Ballyneagh?”

  He balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder while he pulled on a pair of sweat pants.

  “No, I just assumed he went to the dig site.” Brenna sounded distracted, and more than a little upset. “But I left him several messages and it’s not like him to ignore my calls.” Before he could murmur a phrase of false reassurance, she plunged on. “The thing is, I finished the testing and I wanted him to bring you back here to discuss the results. This is not the kind of news to deliver over the phone.”