Nell

by Jeanette Baker

  Jillian closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, the picture of control. “How is Mr. Browne?”

  “We’ve given him a sedative. He’s sleeping.”

  “Does he know that Connor is out of danger?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’d like to tell him, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. I’ll show you to his room.”

  Jillian settled herself in a chair at the foot of Frankie’s bed and prepared herself for a long wait. Frankie Maguire, sedated, his features relaxed in sleep, did not look at all like himself. He seemed younger, more vulnerable, the way he looked before he’d taken on the task of rescuing Northern Ireland from the British. What would he have been, she wondered, if circumstances had been different? He was well spoken and sensitive, an intelligent man, comfortable with animals and children. His manners were impeccable, and on occasion he had revealed a dry wit that surprised her. He was certainly adept at negotiating, reading between the lines, and isolating the pulse of an issue.

  Everything else about his life was a mystery. She knew nothing about how he’d lived after he left Kilvara, the friendships he cultivated, the books he read, even the extent of his family besides Connor and Colette. He appeared athletic and knowledgeable about spectator sports, particularly boxing, but it wasn’t an obsession with him. He drank his tea with milk and sugar, abstained from spirits, and, on occasion, smoked filtered cigarettes.

  It was very little, really, the totality of a man and his parts. Certainly no reason for this all-consuming desire to ease his pain, to feel his glance from across the room, to connect beyond mere eyes and words, to sweep the hair back from his forehead, to feel the clean fineness of it slide between her fingers.

  She drew a long, shuddering breath and deliberately focused her attention on the liquid dripping through the tube above his head. Clearly, for the first time in her life, she was besotted. After twenty-two uneventful years, she, Jillian Fitzgerald Graham, had found him again, the boy-turned-man whose smile shortened her breath and squeezed her heart into its present erratic rhythm. Ironically, he was the one man who despised everything she was. She laughed shortly, hysterically, remembered her place, laced her fingers tightly together, and brought her roiling emotions under control.

  Mixed relationships were as common in other parts of the United Kingdom as they were in the rest of the world. Even Thomas Putnam’s wife was Catholic. But in Northern Ireland, stepping outside one’s faith for a mate was not encouraged. Only ten percent of the population married outside their religion. Frankie Maguire wasn’t just a nationalist, he was a Sinn Fein nationalist, one of the chosen elite, elected to a council seat. His official position demanded that everyone having anything to do with the British occupation in Northern Ireland be consigned to the devil.

  Jillian was not completely inexperienced. Because of her appearance, her wealth, and her family’s position in society, she had been courted by a number of men before marrying Avery Graham. For the most part, they were charming, clever, and agreeable companions. But never once had she been inclined to do anything more than offer her lips in a chaste kiss before saying good night at her door.

  There were times when she wondered if desire was something one was born with and if her requisite dosage had been misplaced or, worse, given to someone else. She knew that some women were cold. That explained the existence of the world’s oldest profession. She’d read and heard enough to understand that many women did not enjoy sex to the same degree as their husbands did.

  At times a restlessness claimed her, after a blatant invitation had been offered, when she’d admitted to a prurient curiosity and imagined what it would be like to take off her clothes and feel a man’s body move over and inside her. But never had she wanted it enough to consider seriously acting on it, until tonight.

  Her eyes flicked over Frankie’s broad shoulders bordered by the hospital white of the sheets, lingering on his strong neck, his square chin, the slashing hollows below the bones of his cheeks, the black lashes resting on sun-dark skin. Jillian swallowed. She wanted Frankie Maguire, wanted him in ways she had never imagined wanting a man.

  There was no hope for anything permanent. She understood enough of him to know he would reject that idea completely. However, he was a man, a man without a wife. And men had needs.

  Jillian stood and walked to the side of the bed. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his cheek. The first signs of a new beard scratched her fingertips. She had needs as well. They were strong within her, especially one. It was madness really, even to think the thoughts working themselves into her head. She was a woman with no experience at all in seduction. But her time was running out. Nothing would be lost by asking. All he could say was no. Of course, she would have nothing left of pride or self-respect, and the tenuous friendship that had built up between them would be lost forever. “Nell,” she whispered, “if ever I needed you, it’s now. Please help me.”

  The tinny double ring of her cell phone interrupted her. She walked into the hall, pressed the receive button, and held it to her ear. “Jillian Graham,” she said crisply.

  “Ronnie Flanagan, here.”

  “Mr. Flanagan, I would like a full report on today’s events in West Belfast, including the name of the person who authorized you to send Land Rovers into a peaceful assembly.”

  “Your information is incorrect, Mrs. Graham,” the police chief replied. “There were no tanks on the west side.”

  Rage drummed in her ears. “Listen carefully, Mr. Flanagan, and don’t interrupt. I was there. Those bloody tanks were shooting at me. Now, either I receive an accurate report, faxed to my office within the hour, or I’ll call the prime minister. Is that clear?”

  “Aye,” the clipped voice answered. “You’ll have it.”

  Jillian switched off her phone and walked to the end of the hall to compose herself. When she reentered Frankie’s room, he was awake.

  Immediately, his eyes met hers. “How is Connor?”

  “Recovering beautifully,” she reassured him, moving to the side of the bed. “The bullet grazed his forehead, and he has a concussion. They want to keep him overnight and release him in the morning. He’ll need a few days of quiet, but that’s all.” She wet her lips. “He was very lucky. You were both very lucky.”

  He nodded. His eyes were still on her face. “Thank you,” he said. “I should have taken better care of him. If it hadn’t been for you—”

  She reached for his hand. His fingers closed around hers.

  “Come home with me to Kildare,” she said abruptly.

  He stared at her, his expression unreadable.

  “Connor needs rest. You’ve been working very hard. It’s been a difficult time.”

  “No more than for you.”

  She looked down at her hands. “We could both use a holiday.”

  “Together?”

  Color rose in her cheeks. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Why are y’ doing this, Jillian? Is it because of Colette?”

  She was very aware of him. The question he posed burned in his eyes. “It’s not Colette,” she whispered. “You said that you would come. Now seems like a good time.” Frankie knew it wasn’t wise to see too much of her. Any fool would know better. But he was particularly vulnerable where she was concerned, and she knew all the right buttons to push. He was tired. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been tired. What would it be like to explore the rolling farm country of Kildare with Jillian again, where the stroll was more important than reaching a destination, where a woman’s walk, like her conversation, had a languid, slow-moving grace? It was dangerous, but what wasn’t? “Thank you,” he said at last. “We’ll be pleased t’ come.”

  ***

  Frankie carried Connor up the wide staircase of Kildare Hall, through the door into a bedroom, and looked aro
und. It was unlike any bedroom he had ever seen before. White clouds had been skillfully and realistically painted on robin’s-egg blue walls. A white canopy stretched across a bed large enough for five children to sleep comfortably. Three mobiles with dancing cartoon figures hung from the ceiling. A box stuffed with toys, its lid left invitingly open, was pushed against the wall. Books, expensive hardbound copies of every children’s story imaginable, lined the shelves. A rocking horse three feet high with real hair stood beside a life-size tin soldier, his arm raised protectively over a small table with dinosaur figures strategically placed across the top. A large television was mounted on the wall. Below it was a cabinet filled with tapes of animated children’s videos. The colors red, white, and blue assaulted him from every angle.

  He whistled a low, piercing note and set Connor on the bed. How could anyone sleep in such a room?

  “It is a bit excessive, isn’t it?” Jillian stood against the door, arms behind her back. “It was Casey’s room a long time ago. We furnished it when she first came to us.”

  Frankie remained silent.

  The color was high in her cheeks. “Perhaps it’s too much.”

  Connor recovered first. His eyes sparkled. “Will this be my room?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

  “Only if you like it,” Jillian said quickly. “There are other rooms.”

  “I love it,” replied the child reverently. “Please, Da. May I stay?”

  Frankie looked down at the cherubic face leaning against his arm and relented. Poor little bloke. How could he ever give him this? Why not let him enjoy it while he had the chance? “Of course, you may stay,” he said gently, “as long as Casey doesn’t mind.”

  “She moved down the hall years ago,” said Jillian. “I suppose I should have remodeled it, but there are other rooms, and I’d hoped—” She met Frankie’s quizzical glance and faltered.

  Mrs. Hyde poked her head through the door and smiled at Connor. “Welcome to Kildare, love. Shall I set everything to rights while Mrs. Graham shows your da to his room? I’ve two grandsons of my own,” she assured Frankie.

  Connor nodded. “Do you have chips today, Mrs. Hyde?”

  “Connor,” his father admonished him. “Whatever Mrs. Hyde is serving will be fine.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Browne. I’ve a basket of chips and a bite of fish all ready for the lad, if you don’t mind. After all, it is almost tea time.”

  Frankie grinned. “So it is. Fish and chips sounds wonderful. Say thank you, Connor.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jillian crossed the room and leaned over the bed to kiss Connor on the cheek. Frankie could smell her perfume.

  “Rest now, love,” she said softly. “Your da will be back soon.”

  Frankie left his son to the redoubtable Mrs. Hyde and followed Jillian two doors down to a suite with a light, airy bedroom that looked down over the garden, a large modern bathroom, and a masculine sitting room furnished in muted colors and expensive period pieces.

  “These were Avery’s rooms,” explained Jillian. “There are larger ones, but I thought you would want to be close to Connor.”

  They were separated by twelve feet, but never had the distance between them seemed greater. Frankie had never before stepped beyond the kitchen of Kildare Hall. Years ago, in the cozy glow of an old-fashioned cookstove, a woodburning oven, ice box, and pantry, all presided over by a woman from his own class, anything had seemed possible. He should have looked behind the swinging door to the long, glowing banquet table, the gleam of polished silver, the Persian carpets, the priceless paintings, and the rows of Fitzgerald ancestors peering down at him with their long English faces. He would have understood the limitations of his place long before and spared himself years of grief.

  “Is it all right?” Jillian asked anxiously. “If not, I can—”

  “The rooms are grand,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll look in on Connor and meet you downstairs.”

  The hazel eyes lowered, hiding her thoughts. “Take as long as you like. There’s no rush.”

  He’d offended her, or worse, hurt her feelings. “If there’s time,” he said quickly before she closed the door, “I’d like to take a walk before tea.”

  “The paths are well marked. You won’t get lost.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  She looked startled, as if a man had never asked her such a thing before. He watched her gather herself and assume the Fitzgerald poise, expecting her to refuse him.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

  Frankie stared at the closed door for a long time. She’d agreed. Just like that. No coy glances through lowered lashes. No flirtatious smile or embarrassed stammer. Just a quiet acquiescence, an affirmation that she wanted his company as he wanted hers.

  He ran his hand down his face and headed for the washroom. After a quick shave, he brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Rummaging through the cabinet, he found a bottle of expensive aftershave with the seal and price tag intact. Apparently, Avery Graham had discriminating tastes. He twisted off the lid, held the bottle to his nose, and applied it sparingly to his cheeks and chin. If she recognized the scent, he would tell the truth.

  Connor was asleep. Frankie closed the door quietly and walked down the stairs. She waited for him in the drawing room, dressed in the same wide-legged beige slacks and white linen blouse she was wearing when he arrived. Her hair was twisted behind her head and held in place with something brown, the same brown that grew from her roots and lightened into varied streaks of toast and honey as it lengthened to her shoulders. Jillian had beautiful hair, the same hair she’d had as a child, thick and springy, milk chocolate in the shadows, dark blond where it caught the light.

  “I checked on Connor,” she said. “He’s sleeping. Perhaps he’ll be hungry later.”

  Frankie laughed. “He’s always been a healthy eater. My food bills should be huge by the time he’s twelve.”

  She slipped dark glasses on her head and came toward him. “Will he sleep through the night?”

  He could see the poreless texture of her skin. English skin. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “The medication tires him.”

  “Are you still in the mood for a walk?”

  “Aye. Are you?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Very much.” He had sampled Avery’s cologne, yet his smell was distinctively his own, a symphony that began loudly and slid into subtle tangling developments. The cologne had always been wasted on Avery, but then it was a scent designed to appeal to a woman, and, unlike Avery, Frankie had worn it for her. “Shall we go?”

  They walked side by side. She was long-legged and used to hiking, but still, he shortened his stride to match hers. The hills posed no difficulty for him. His pace never changed, nor was he short of breath. Clearly, Frankie Maguire, the man, was comfortable out of doors, just as the boy had been. The Aran sweater and corduroy slacks he wore suited his lean, rangy frame, and his shoes were high at the ankle and thickly soled, ideal for hiking the roads of Ireland.

  She led him through the hedgerow, single-file, to the path along the river. He stepped in front, climbed through first, and held out his hand to help her up the embankment. Jillian, who’d climbed the cliffs like a mountain goat from the time she could walk, reached up, placed her hand in his, and clung while he hoisted her through the shrubbery and up the hill. The path widened for a bit, and she was able to walk beside him again.

  The silence had grown to the point where Jillian felt the need to speak, when he pulled her back against his chest and held his finger against her lips. “Shhh,” he whispered, pointing to a thicket on the left. “Look.”

  Jillian stared into the darkest part of the thicket. At first, she couldn’t see anything, but when her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw
a silver fox with three kits, two red and one silver, still as statues, staring back at her. “Oh,” she whispered, “I haven’t seen the silver ones in years.”

  She felt his breath against her cheek when he spoke. ‘They’re nearly extinct this far north. I haven’t seen any since I was a child.” He released her and once again moved to her side.

  They’d climbed the bluff and looked down on the sun turning the river to liquid gold. Suddenly, it occurred to her that there might never be a better time to ask the question that had troubled her for weeks. Perhaps he would confide in her. She summoned her courage and spoke. “Why is it that no one seems to know anything about you, Danny? Have you always lived in Belfast?”

  He pulled a strand of hair away from her mouth with his thumb. “A bit curious, are you?” he said lightly.

  “More than a bit.”

  “May I ask why?”

  She turned to face him. “Of course. As soon as you answer my question.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Why didn’t he recognize her? Jillian wasn’t exactly a common name. “Are you hiding something, Danny?”

  “Every man hides something from time to time.”

  “Not every man is so leery about answering a simple question.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can argue with the best of them, can’t you, lass?”

  She turned the full force of her meadow-green gaze on him. “Did you think I couldn’t?”

  He shook his head. “You’re intelligent enough. But the spirit is bred out of you English girls, early on.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Aye.”

  Did she dare ask him? Jillian took a deep breath. “I want to ask you a question. It’s a favor, really. But unless you trust me, it won’t work.”

  His heartbeat accelerated. “You want a favor from me?”

  “Yes.”