“And I’m not a Metro Girl anymore,” Miriam told him. “Not primarily. So I don’t have a condom in my purse this time. Not that I had any more, anyway. Just the one.”
In spite of his overwrought state, he chuckled. “Someone sold you one condom?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It was a party favor.”
He arched his eyebrows in surprise. “You went to a party where they passed out condoms?” He twisted a stray lock of her hair around his finger. “My, but you are a temptress, aren’t you?”
“Actually, it was a bridal shower,” she told him.
This time he gaped at her. “Promise me, Miriam, that at your bridal shower, you’ll only pass out petit fours or some such thing.”
She smiled. “I’m not sure what we’ll be passing out at my bridal shower. Depends on who’s in charge that day. Whether it’s Miriam Librarian or Miriam Temptress or Miriam Hostess, for that matter.”
“Right now, at this moment,” he said, “I’m hoping you’re Miriam Overcome-with-Desire.”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him, cupping his warm jaw in her hand. “I am that.”
“But without a condom…”
“I might become Miriam Mommy,” she finished for him.
“Yes,” he told her, resigned.
“And you might become Rory Daddy,” she added.
“Yes.”
“And would that be so terrible?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “No. Not at all.”
“Then maybe we should just hope for the best,” she suggested.
He grinned. “Maybe we should.”
And as Rory entered her, slowly, deeply, thoroughly, Miriam thought that hoping for the best certainly brought the best. Because there was no other word to describe what Rory was.
She closed her eyes as he penetrated her more deeply now, burying himself inside her as far as he would go. For a moment they only lay there, motionless, allowing their bodies to become reacquainted. Then Rory withdrew some, with an exquisite slowness and carefulness that made Miriam writhe with wanting him. Instinctively she shot her hips upward, to reclaim him, and he responded by thrusting himself down toward her again.
This time, there was no retreating, no withdrawing, only a steady plundering of her body with his. She wrapped her legs snugly around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, claiming him more completely, until the rhythm of their coupling generated an incandescent reaction. And somewhere amid the conflagration, Miriam and Rory melted into each other, physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. And as, little by little, they quieted and calmed, she knew they would never, ever part.
For long moments they only lay entwined, their bodies and hearts and souls and minds still joined. Then, very softly Rory said, “As much as I look forward to making love to you in the proper surroundings for all time to come, I think I’ll always look back on that first time in my car with very fond memories.”
Miriam pushed her hair back from her forehead and gazed intently into Rory’s eyes. Then she smiled. “Me, too. As awkward as it was at the time, it was also…unforgettable.”
He nodded. “One of these days we’ll have to do it again, just for old-time’s sake. But we’ll use the back seat instead, for logistical reasons.”
“And one of these days,” she added, “we’ll have to make love on one of the tables in the reference section at the library, too.” She laughed at his scandalized expression, then added, “And I know just which table to use, too, Stegman’s or no.”
“Why, Miriam,” Rory said mischievously. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Never again,” she assured him. “From now on, no matter what’s on my mind—and no matter which one of me is thinking it—you’ll be the first to know. And guess what I’m thinking about right now.”
He smiled wickedly. “I’m not sure exactly what—yet—you’re thinking about, but I’ll wager good money I know which one of you is thinking it.” He maneuvered their bodies so that they had switched positions, with Miriam lying atop him now. Then he looped an arm around her neck and pulled her down to him for another kiss. “Come here, you little temptress you….”
Epilogue
There was no better time for a wedding, Rory thought, than springtime. Not that he and Miriam intended to wait that long to get married—heavens, no. But having watched his brother Connor plan his springtime nuptials for the last several weeks, Rory was more certain than ever that he and his wife-to-be had made the right decision to marry now. Before there was time to argue over whether the bridesmaids would wear pink or peach, before there was time to worry about whether to serve chicken or beef at the reception, before there was time to be concerned if the ushers should wear black or charcoal-gray.
Before Miriam Thornbury got away.
Not that Rory feared she would leave him, but he was an intelligent man, after all, and he knew better than to leave anything to chance. Besides, he was so preoccupied by thoughts of marrying Miriam these days that he scarcely ever got any work done. Not that he minded. Oddly enough, having his head filled with thoughts of her was infinitely more satisfying than thoughts of…
Oh, whatever those things were that his head used to be filled with. He could barely remember now.
In spite of November’s arrival, the weather was surprisingly mild, one of those gifts of a day that the Midwest sometimes received from the weather gods before winter moved in for the duration. Therefore, the garden behind the Marigold Free Public Library was the perfect place to be wed. He and Miriam had planned to hold the ceremony indoors, amid the books and authors they both loved so well, but being outside now, surrounded by the people they loved instead, made the ceremony all the more wonderful.
And so many people had come: His sister, Tess, rosy and round with child, along with her husband, Will. His brother Sean and Sean’s fiancée, Autumn. Connor and his intended. And of course Cullen was there, too, staying very close to the mayor, who, Rory and Miriam both had been surprised to find, had RSVPed in the affirmative after the wedding invitations went out.
Everyone seemed to be coupling up, Rory thought. His sister, Tess, had started a summer-long tradition for the Monahans when she and Will had become an item last June. Because Sean and Autumn had begun dating shortly after that. Then Rory and Miriam had hooked up. Connor hadn’t been long after them, and if Cullen’s reaction to the mayor was any indication, then, by Christmas, he, too, would be among the recently engaged or married.
It was just too bad that Rory’s oldest brother, Finn, showed no sign of ever joining himself to a woman. Not that Rory was surprised, mind you. Finn, he was certain, would never give up the torch he carried for Violet Demarest, even if Violet would, if she was smart, never show her face in Marigold again. Poor woman.
“That’s our cue.”
The words pulled Rory from his reverie, and he turned his attention very willingly to Miriam.
“All set?” he asked her, already knowing the answer.
And, just as he had known she would, she smiled and nodded quite enthusiastically. “Oh, yes,” she told him. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Longer even than you.”
He narrowed his eyes at her playfully. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. Because he had realized some time ago that, deep down, he had wanted Miriam from the first day he had lain eyes on her. It had just taken him a while to realize that. His brain, after all, had been so cluttered with nonessential information, and he’d had to make room by storing up thoughts and images and memories of her.
He bent his arm at the elbow in a silent bid that she should take it, and Miriam did so eagerly. Her dress was a flowing, snowy gown with a full skirt and long train. It scooped low over her breasts, and in spite of its lack of a side slit, Rory thought she looked very goddess-like in it. Especially with the wreath of tiny pearls that circled her head, and the length of translucent veil that cascaded down to the edge of her gown’s train.
“You look b
eautiful,” he told her. He smiled as he added, “Very tempting.”
She smiled back. “And you,” she replied, “must have been doing some reading behind my back. Because you look like the very devil with a black tuxedo on.”
He grinned. “Yes, well, I do confess that I have picked up an issue of Metropolitan or two. It’s amazing what a man can learn about a woman reading that publication.”
“Oh?” Miriam said with interest. “Like what?”
“Well, there was that one headline that said Help Him Find Your G-Spot—Then Go After His! that I found very intriguing. Not to mention educational.”
“Mmm,” she said. “I must have missed that article.”
“That’s all right,” he told her. “I took notes.”
“I can’t wait for you to teach me what you learned.”
“Oh, Miss Thornbury,” Rory said with a wicked smile. “The things we’ll learn together.”
“Oh, my,” she responded with an equally wicked smile. “You are a devil, aren’t you?”
“And you, my dear, are such a temptress.”
“Then I think we shall both be very happy together.”
Rory smiled again as he led her toward the garden. Oh, yes. He was more than certain of that.
Mysterious Stranger
by Patricia Rosemoor
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Prologue
A scream woke her.
Not human, she realized, pushing herself up out of a deep sleep.
“What’s that?”
The answering whisper came from the rising wind.
She was alone.
Moonlight shimmered through the window and over the rumpled quilt that offered comfort against the chill spring night. Another scream, equine, a fusion of fear and fury, drove her up from the bed. She recognized the source.
Heart beating madly, she choked out, “Finn mac Cumhail!”
The damp cold attacked her bare feet, seeped through the long cotton nightgown embracing her full hips and tangling around her thighs as if to trip her. Somehow she bolted through the unfamiliar and darkened kitchen without bumping into anything. In the mudroom, she slid her feet into a pair of muck-covered boots.
Then it was out to the night and into the barn. The handful of stabled horses moved about restlessly. Complaining. But no Finn in his stall. Another squeal came from behind the building. She flew outside and into the pasture that topped the bluff, where fingers of mist rose from the Hudson River below.
Not that the rising fog prevented her from being faced with a horror that she could hardly grasp.
Tied to the fence, the terrified stallion reared to defend himself against the human who wielded a deadly length of pipe. If the Thoroughbred’s legs were broken—the obvious intent—his death would be assured.
“Stop!” she screamed.
He did halt for a moment to glance back, and the only way she could describe him with the moon-gleam silvering his distorted features was deranged. As crazed as the horse who twisted and turned from the lead that secured him to the fence post.
What could cause such desperation?
Anguish tore through her heart as she rushed to stop this desecration, for his shaky hand was already lifting for another strike. He was drunk—she noted how he lurched as he tried to take aim.
Fearing for the stallion, she didn’t hesitate to position herself between the powerful chestnut and him. “Enough!”
Too late. Already on its trajectory, the pipe contacted not the horse’s leg, but hers. A sharp crack…waves of nauseating pain engulfed her…sent her reeling to the ground. Her strangled cry of disbelief and agony joined with Finn’s outraged squeal.
The stallion lunged for him, then, teeth bared, as if to protect her, and the pipe came down. Finn’s beautiful velvet nose split like a ripe fruit. Blood sprayed black against the silver light. And closer now, she could see several other wounds on his shoulder and foreleg, all open and weeping.
Tears sprang to her eyes.
“You won’t get away with this!” she cried, her heart already broken. “You’re a ruined man! No one will ever let you near a horse again!”
It was then he turned on her, his features twisted into a grotesque mask, and she realized that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow her to tell the tale.
Fear snaked up into her throat.
“Stay away from me!” she choked out, scrabbling back toward the bluff.
Pipe raised and aimed at her, he advanced.
Frantic for a way out, she looked around wildly for some makeshift weapon that she could use to defend herself. Her gaze lit on the farm tool propped against a fence post—the only ray of hope that she might hold him off and save both herself and Finn.
Rolling out of his path, she lunged for the pitchfork and clumsily hefted its awkward weight to keep him away from her.
And then, in a flash, the horror multiplied…
Chapter One
Grantham Acres spread out before them, not unlike a picture-perfect postcard.
Rolling grassy hills neatly surrounded by four-board, white fence and live oak. Grazing Thoroughbred mares with colts and fillies at their sides. And amidst it all, a magnificent house of the Federal style with double pillars that rose on either side of the front door—a splash of blinding white against the surrounding greens.
Curran McKenna stopped the rental car at the top of a rise to take it all in.
“A piece of the old sod, isn’t it,” Ned Flaherty said from the passenger seat.
Indeed, Curran thought, the Kentucky bluegrass drew its color from an earth rich with lime, which made the connection back to the green hills of Ireland.
He looked to his assistant, middle-aged and comfortable in his country tweeds. “Surely you’re not homesick already, and us gone only a day.”
“Just a bit more comfortable in this strange land, filled with a stranger people who insist on driving on the wrong side of the road,” Ned groused, furrowing his forehead so his thick, wild reddish-brown eyebrows drew together.
Curran laughed. Americans were a faster-paced, more serious, less talkative people than the Irish. Other than that, he didn’t see much difference. People were people—good, bad, indifferent. Every country had its mix.
Besides, they weren’t here to socialize but on a mission of mercy.
Curran continued toward the front entrance to the estate. Hard to believe that at the heart of this beauty lay something dark enough to sadden the soul.
Finn mac Cumhail gone mad—Curran could hardly fathom it.
What could have happened to the magnificent creature he’d gentled into the racing circuit three years before?
A long drive swept them up toward the house. The grounds were lushly landscaped, the flower beds separated from the blacktop by low limestone walls similar to those found in the Irish countryside.
Only when they stopped in the circular driveway before the front door did Curran notice the signs of wear that told him the house needed tending. He slid out from behind the driver’s seat and took a better look around at the house and one of the barns. Peeling paint and rotting wood were always a problem back home where most every day was soft with rain. But he was surprised to see any signs of neglect here under such a glorious sun and on such a magnificent property.
The front door opened and an attractive older woman dressed in denims and a knit polo shirt stepped outside with a friendly wave. “You must be Mr. McKenna.”
“And you must be Jane Grantham.”
/> “I’m Belle. Jane is my granddaughter.”
A youthful grandmother, Curran thought, noting the silver wings in the woman’s short, light brown hair. His own grandmother Moira McKenna, God bless her soul, hadn’t had a thing on this woman in that department.
He shook her hand and introduced Ned, who was immediately at his best. “If you’re a grandmother, then Miss Jane must be barely out of the schoolroom.”
Belle laughed. “You’re a charmer.”
But before Ned could counter, a shrill cry split the air.
“Finn?”
“I’m afraid so. Jane is obsessed with that horse. She can’t leave him alone for a day. And unfortunately, he doesn’t appreciate her efforts.”
“What happened? To craze him, I mean.”
Belle appeared stricken. She shook her head. “I don’t know. Some kind of terrible accident. That’s all Jane would say.”
“Then it’s off to find out,” Curran said, instincts already humming.
He started off in the direction of the disturbance.
“No, wait! Um, Mr. McKenna…”
He stopped and turned to face her. “Curran.”
“Curran, Jane isn’t expecting you.”
“But she’s the one who wrote me.”
“No. I wrote you on her letterhead and signed her name. I thought you would be more convinced if the plea came from the farm manager. I meant to tell her, I really did. I just couldn’t find the words.”
Sensing her desperation, Curran chose not to make an issue of the deception. “I am Irish, so I’ll not be having trouble with words,” he said instead.
He was here now. And he was obviously needed. No need to distress her further.
Seeming a bit relieved, she nodded. “I hope you have the right ones, then. I haven’t been able to get through to Jane. No trainer in this area will take on Finn. A few have tried…but they all say he needs to be…” She swallowed hard and went on. “Jane is determined to fix Finn herself, as if she is somehow to blame. But how can she fix him, when she can’t even fix herself?”
Men Made in America Mega-Bundle Page 172