He opened his mouth, finally letting out a breath. “Nay, lass. You see to the boy.”
She couldn’t force him. She’d have to find a way to bring him into Devlin’s therapy. She was certain he was the key to the child’s recovery. And perhaps the child was the key to Patrick’s happiness as well.
She gave him a nod and joined Devlin in the bedroom. The child sat on the floor once again.
“Do you want to sit on your bed, Devlin?” she asked brightly. She perched on his bed. “Oh, it’s nice and so soft.”
He turned his head to just catch her eye. She had seen that expression on his father’s face just moments ago. Desire and reluctance.
She leaned toward him and held out her hand. His arm nearest her twitched and he froze, clenching his hand into a fist. Taking a different approach, she moved over on the bed and leaned back on her elbows.
“Would you like to hear a story, Devlin?” she asked. She looked around the room. “I don’t see any books, but I bet we can borrow some tomorrow from your cousin, Bryce. Bryce is as old as you are, Devlin.”
He watched her closely. But still he held back.
“I want to tell you some stories,” she said with a nod. “I hope you’ll like them.”
She began to tell him of a mermaid who wished to be human, of a girl who lived with seven dwarves, of a princess sleeping for many years until her prince kissed her awake. Thank God for her good memory. She’d gone to see the animated movies by herself over the past decade or so, and hoped the tales gave Devlin as much pleasure now as they had her then.
Devlin’s lids began to droop and she took advantage of his fatigue.
“Come, Devlin,” she said softly, coming to her feet. “You can rest here beside me.”
She scooped him up in her arms and he didn’t fight her. He didn’t relax, though. He was very stiff.
After placing him on his bed, she removed his shoes. He grunted his protest until she placed the shoes next to his pillow beside his head. He faced the shoes, his sleepy eyes focused nonetheless.
She told him another story, one of a girl who fell asleep in the future and woke up in the past. The sound of her voice lulled him into fitful sleep and she couldn’t resist brushing his curls back from his face.
“Good night, Devlin,” she whispered.
She eased off the bed and stretched. She walked softly to the door and when she pulled it open she found Patrick standing there. He filled the doorway, leaning one arm on the doorjamb. His hair was damp, like he’d just washed his face. The collar of his shirt was opened and she stared at his strong throat. His spicy fresh scent was stronger with him so close to her, and she couldn’t resist sucking in a breath of him.
“Pardon me, lass,” he rushed out.
She recovered her wits and cocked her head to one side. “Devlin’s asleep, Patrick.”
He nodded and she moved aside to let him in the room. He brushed against her as he did so, and she nearly went weak in the knees. Oh, she must be more tired than she thought. She ducked out into the hallway.
“Good night,” she whispered.
She didn’t wait for his response as she hurried to her bedroom.
***
Patrick watched Tara make good her escape. She hadn’t known he’d stood outside the door for close to an hour before her discovery. Drawn to the room, he had stood and listened to the tales she told the child. Patrick closed the door and stepped toward the pallet.
Devlin slept uneasily. He didn’t toss and turn, but his limbs weren’t still. He dropped a kiss on Devlin’s head and began to ready for bed.
“You liked Tara’s storytellin’, Devlin,” he said softly.
He smiled to himself. He’d liked it, too. Her voice was as smooth as fine leather. Aye, but warm.
Stripped down to his breeches, he stretched out on his bed. He sniffed the air and could still detect Tara’s scent in the room, flowers and freshness and woman. Thankfully she hadn’t sat on his bed. Trying to sleep with her crowding his senses would surely prove torture.
As he had listened to her tell her tales to Devlin, his heart had begun to ache. So long ago his mother would sit on his bed as she told him and his brothers tales of far off places and of funny happenings right there in the dell. And though Uncle Seamus had raised the brothers well after their parents died, Patrick always missed having a mother. A gentle soul who wanted nothing more than the happiness of her children and family.
Tara was much like his mother had been. Strong and sweet, good and pure. The stirring of desire struck his body and his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for sleep.
Again the nightmare came, this time aided by his desire for the woman sleeping down the hall. In his sleeping mind Patrick stumbled through the woods, his arousal almost painful as the witch called to him.
“Aye, you want me,” the Banshee purred. With a flick of her fingers she opened his breeches and stroked him, long and slow. “You ache to be inside me.”
Patrick groaned, fisting his hands at his sides. The Banshee dropped to her knees in front of him, turning a sly smile upward. She took him in her mouth then, teasing and sucking until he nearly spent himself against her tongue.
She lifted her head away from him. “Nay, Patrick,” she cooed, holding tight to his shaft. “I’ll not let you spill your seed.” She ran the tip of her tongue over the head and he gasped. “Not yet.”
He fell to his own knees, leaning back on his heels as she crept over him. She straddled him, coming down hard to impale herself on his shaft as she pumped up and down. Patrick closed his eyes and leaned his head back, letting the witch take him with her over the edge to insanity.
In his lonely bed in the dell, Patrick twitched and moaned. He woke with a start, his heart pounding. His body was still erect, painful in his breeches as he tried to cool his ardor. Damn the Banshee and what she’d done to him. A whimper reached his ears and he turned to watch Devlin stirring in his sleep. That cooled his body at last.
Again he smelled it, the sweet scent of Tara.
“Please help Devlin, Tara,” Patrick rasped.
He leaned back on his damp pillow and held a hand over his eyes. He wouldn’t dare hope there was any help for himself.
***
Tara chose some lovely biscuits from the sideboard and sat at the beautiful dining table. The coffee in the carafe Mrs. O’Grady had set on the table smelled heavenly and Tara poured some into a cup. A few teaspoons of sugar, and dollop of rich cream, and it was as good as anything from the coffee shop near the hospital. As she sniffed the aroma, her eyes closed, she could almost imagine herself home. Her eyes snapped open and she clicked her tongue. But she wasn’t home.
Today she wore another of Brianna’s borrowed dresses, this one in a pretty shade of blue. As strange as it was to wear such clothes, she found them comfortable. And last night she’d slept in one of her borrowed soft cotton slips, having no nightgown. It was all still so surreal, living here in the past.
The carved bed wasn’t only beautiful but quite comfortable. She’d cracked the window a bit, letting in the freshest air she’d ever breathed. Yes, sleep had come easy, once she’d gotten Patrick out of her mind.
She’d tried to think of a way to reach him, of how he could help Devlin’s treatment. It was so obvious the little boy needed him. At least he let Mrs. O’Grady dress and clean him, another indicator that Devlin wasn’t completely closed off to the people around him. Again, she puzzled over the odd affliction holding on to him. Maybe Patrick wasn’t being completely candid about Devlin’s birth.
“Tara,” a deep voice said softly.
She looked up to find Patrick standing in the doorway, his hair tousled and his brows drawn together. His blue eyes were dark and intense as they ran over her face, and she felt her skin prickle.
“Good morning,” she answered. “I’d thought you would have left for your workshop.”
He said something under his breath and shook his head. “Sean and Luke can open
up this morning. I didn’t sleep easy last night.”
Suddenly an image popped into her mind, one of the big man tossing and turning, those thick lashes dark against his ruddy cheeks, that lovely mouth open as he moaned in his sleep. What did he wear to bed? She let out a slow breath. Did he sleep naked?
“Lass?” he asked, stepping closer to the table.
Tara wiped her damp palms on her linen napkin. God, since when was she such a pervert? She glanced over at him again. He licked his lips and she wanted to pressed her mouth there. Maybe this time-jump thing affected her in ways she couldn’t imagine.
“Mrs. O’Grady is taking care of Devlin,” she rushed out. “Getting him dressed and cleaned up. He’ll be out to eat with us any minute.”
He threw a troubled gaze toward the hallway, toward the bathroom, and shook his head again. “I’ll leave you to his care, Tara.”
She set aside any thought of how yummy he looked standing there, how well the clothes from the past—the now, really—fit his big body. “You have to take a role in his therapy. I feel it’s crucial.”
He opened his mouth, then bowed his head. “Good day, Tara.”
He turned and left, leaving her speechless. Was it so painful for him to be around the son of the woman he’d lost? Jealousy cut through her and she drowned it with a deep drink of Mrs. O’Grady’s strong coffee.
***
Patrick couldn’t leave the cottage fast enough. First to find Tara, looking more beautiful in her borrowed finery than any woman had a right to, and then all but pleading with him to stay. Aye, he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to sit beside her at the table as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d wanted to take her small, capable hand in his and thank her for helping him. He’d wanted to lick the tiny biscuit crumb poised at the corner of her mouth.
His blood had pounded, it pounded still, and he couldn’t pass it off as a lingering effect of last night’s dream. Nay, ‘twas Tara herself that caused his blood to run hot, not the memory of his wickedness with the Banshee.
Aye, he had wanted to stay with her. But the mention of poor Devlin set any thoughts of that aside. He couldn’t bear to see the boy he’d cursed, not after last night. Not after a dream so clear it was as if his sin was fresh. As if his scar was raw. All his fault. He’d told Tara as much, though she’d obviously discounted what he’d said. No doubt many of the parents she’d spoken with in Indianapolis had said the same thing, had taken all the blame for their children’s affliction on themselves. He let out a harsh laugh.
‘Twas a pity he knew he was right.
Chapter 9
Tara would start Devlin’s therapy right after breakfast, as she had each day for the past week. And as she’d found each morning of this past week, Patrick was nowhere to be found. Devlin ate at the table as if it was the norm for him, this time enjoying one of Mrs. O’Grady’s sweet rolls. Sticky icing smeared his mouth and Tara smiled as she wiped his face with a napkin.
“You like that sweet roll, Devlin,” she said.
Devlin said nothing but he didn’t pull away from her. She took that as another small dose of encouragement. How much would Devlin respond if it was his father caring for him this morning?
Patrick MacDonald. She’d never met such a complicated man, and that wasn’t even taking into account that he’d grabbed her from her time and whisked her to his. There was something there, something as dark as what she sometimes glimpsed in sweet Devlin’s eyes. She drank her fragrant tea and pondered the man. And how she could help him get over whatever made his face go all dark and Gothic.
She’d graduated with honors, had studied at one of the leading centers for behavioral studies, and she couldn’t reach the father one fraction of how she’d begun to reach the son. Again, she supposed he’d loved Devlin’s mother very much to mourn her loss so. He never spoke of her, nor put any useless blame on her for Devlin’s problems. No, he’d rather take them on himself. Oh, to be loved by such a man.
She set her pretty china tea cup down so quickly it clattered. Devlin had heard, she’d seen him flinch, but he was quiet for now. Don’t be stupid, Tara.
It wouldn’t do her any good to think of Patrick romantically. That was for sure. She never had much luck with her love life. The MacDonalds were a handsome bunch, though. She looked at the little boy in her temporary care. Surely little Devlin would easily draw the girls to him once he reached his teens.
She smiled as she once more sipped at her tea. She could imagine Devlin as a teen, laughing and teasing and completely at ease. Had Patrick been like that at one time? Had he been a charming boyfriend to Devlin’s mother? Jealousy niggled at her, jealousy for the woman who had no part in the boy’s life but had been such a big part of the father’s.
Devlin began to chant, nonsense words to her ears. But aside from grunts or screams, she’d never heard him make any sounds. He babbled to his cup of milk and she saw he focused on a drop of condensation on the glass. His eyes were clear at the moment and he seemed in control of his movements. Her heart lifted and any thought of romancing Patrick fled her mind. Devlin was ready for more challenges.
They played well together with Bryce’s borrowed blocks and wooden animals, but her floor time with him could use the addition of some props. She reviewed the therapies in her mind. Maybe some dolls? She’d have to speak to Patrick about this.
“Good mornin’, lass.” Seamus greeted her with a grin. “And how’s our little laddie?”
Devlin shrunk into himself but his eyes darted toward his great uncle. Tara hid her smile at the man’s unusual attire. The green he sported today was bright, and with his red hair and brawny stature he looked almost like a— No, she thought in the next moment. They were in Ireland, yes. Seamus was as charming as the other MacDonalds. But Seamus wasn’t a Leprechaun.
“Devlin’s enjoying his pastry,” she said.
Seamus nodded and served himself from the sideboard. “And what are you doin’ this day, lass?”
“We’ll play outside today, I think. And read some books.” Tara saw that Devlin hung on Seamus’s every motion. “Devlin likes stories.”
“Aye,” Seamus chuckled. He sat down across from her and Devlin. “Like his father before him. ‘Tis true sometimes the only way I could get the lads to be still was to tell them tales.”
“You spent a lot of time with them, then?” she asked.
“Aye, lass. I raised ‘em, I did.” His mouth turned down in a slight frown. “Their parents died when the lads were wee things.”
Tara nodded, thoughtful. “And Patrick and Sean still live with you,” she said.
“Aye. Sean’s too young to worry about settlin’ down into his own place. And Patrick—”
Seamus stopped himself, his gaze sliding away from hers. Curiosity pricked at her, fueled by her earlier thoughts of him and Devlin’s mother. Patrick had kept himself away from her over the past week, only making her more eager to know about him. Although that was probably the opposite of his intentions.
“Devlin looks just like him,” she offered.
Seamus nodded with a smile. “That he does.” He reached across the table to grab on to her hand. “I pray you can help him, lass.”
For the flash of a moment she knew he didn’t speak of Devlin. But why on earth would Patrick need her help? “Y-yes,” she stammered. “So do I.”
Seamus didn’t say anything more, not about Patrick or Devlin. The sun beckoned through the wide windows, and she chose to turn her mind to other thoughts. One glance at Devlin showed her he, too, felt the pull of the beautifully-landscaped backyard. His eyes were opened wide as he stared toward the springtime colors visible beyond the window.
“I believe we’ll head outside now,” she said brightly. Devlin didn’t respond, but his shoulders tightened. “Come, Devlin.”
At Seamus’s nod she helped Devlin down from his chair and gently pulled him by the hand through the French doors that opened into the backyard. He followed on stiff legs.
> But he followed.
***
Patrick made his way back home, eager to see Devlin. And, he could admit to himself, eager to see Tara. Over the past week, since that awkward moment at breakfast when he’d felt the pull of her, he’d kept his distance. He could hear her, moving around in her room, washing in the water closet. He could smell her in his room, her sweet scent lingering after she’d seen to Devlin. She filled his senses, and he had no right to feel anything for her except gratitude.
But he’d watched her working with his son, without her knowledge. Sadly, he’d seen little progress. It was clear she cared for the boy. And Devlin was growing attached to her, as attached as the troubled boy could be. He guessed Tara saw Devlin’s tiny reactions to her presence. The boy was as attracted to Tara as the father was. Little wonder, that. She was as bright as sunshine through the thick trees bordering the dell.
What would happen when he took Tara home, when her treatment with Devlin was finished? He shook his head. He wouldn’t think about that. He would continue to pray that she brought the little boy back and whole. She was as dedicated to Devlin as he had seen her with that little girl at the hospital. And if her success meant her leaving the dell, so be it. For once in his young life, Devlin would have to come first.
Steeling himself against his attraction to Tara, he stepped up onto the stoop and entered the house.
“Oh, we weren’t expectin’ ya, Master Patrick,” Mrs. O’Grady called through the archway to the dining room. She straightened and walked into the parlor. “Miss Tara and the lad already had luncheon.”
Disappointment flicked at him, but he pushed it aside. “Ah.”
“They’re outside in the gardens,” she offered.
He didn’t miss the anticipation on the old woman’s face.
Seeking to hide his own, he nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Grady.”
Patrick walked through the house to the find Tara and Devlin in the gardens, playing catch with a ball on the flagstone walk. Well, she was playing and he was watching. Closely. Devlin kept his head down, apparently studying the veining and colors set in the stones beneath him. But Patrick didn’t miss his eager gaze each time the ball rolled close to him. Devlin’s body tensed, almost invisibly.
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