by Mia Sheridan
Both my parents had died here, but it was the living I was remembering. And God, I'd needed this.
I tried the back door of the stable. Surprisingly it was open. The light inside was dimmer, dust motes twirling lazily in shafts of sunlight coming from the skylights above. The smell of old wood, hay, and the faint scent of the horses that had once lived here mingled together in the still air. I walked to the stalls and stood staring into the empty space. My eyes filled with tears. "Oh Maribel," I whispered. She had been my horse and part of this property I'd grieved the hardest for when Ginny told me she had to sell it. She'd reassured me she had found a good home for her, but I still missed her even though so much time had passed. "Are they good to you?" I whispered.
Bending my neck, I rested my forehead against the rough wood. I heard a small sound and whirled around. Brogan was standing by the open door, looking unsure, his hands in his pockets. For just a moment I simply stared at him. He looked so much like the boy I'd once known, the boy I'd wanted desperately to be mine, the boy I'd once . . . loved. Yes, I'd loved him. Some would say I hadn't known him well enough to love him, that I'd loved my own fantasy of him, that I'd simply been young and fickle, that perhaps I didn't even know what love was. But I didn't believe it—even now, all these years later and with the eyes of a woman. Something in him had called to me, something about him had spoken to my heart in a way no one had before or since. Even now, standing across from each other in the dim light of the stable where we'd first made love, there was so much bitterness between us, so much heartache and resentment, and yet my heart recognized something in him I could feel but didn’t know how to name.
"Hi," I whispered. Brogan walked toward me, never taking his eyes from mine. The expression on his face was so intense, so filled with the same yearning I'd known in his eyes before. It shocked me—touched me—filled me with warmth for him, because I recognized what it was costing him to let me see it. When he'd stepped right up to me, I tipped my head back to look up at him, my breath catching. He brought his hand to my face and used his thumb to wipe the tear from my cheek.
"Lydia," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "Mo Chroí."
A princess? No, no longer. But it was what he'd always called me, and so it was special for that reason alone, especially when said that way. I shook my head back and forth. "I just . . ."
"I know," he said. "I know." I leaned in to his touch. Maybe it was because I was emotional. Maybe because it just felt so good to have someone touch me with tenderness in that moment. Or maybe it was because it was Brogan, and we were back together in the place where I'd once loved him, and he was showing me a glimpse of his own vulnerability. Maybe it was all those things.
I felt like I'd gone back in time for just a moment and I wanted to grasp onto it and do it better this time. I wanted another chance . . . another opportunity to make things different. And though I knew it couldn't be so, right then it felt possible anyway.
My breath rushed out and I put my hand over Brogan's heart and felt it beating steadily under my palm. "Lydia," he said again. A question, an answer, a prayer.
His eyes changed, and I sensed his intention before he even moved. He was going to kiss me. For the second time in my life Brogan Ramsay was going to kiss me. And I wanted him to—possibly even more than the first time. My heart beat out the plea and my lips parted a moment before his head came down and his mouth met mine. The contact immediately sent waves of pleasure radiating through me in an overwhelming rush of heat. I whimpered and wrapped my arms around his neck at the same moment he pulled me against him. His head tilted and his tongue swept into my mouth and my tongue met his, sliding against it in a delicious caress. It felt like a symphony rose in every cell of my body as I became reacquainted so easily with his taste, his touch, the way he reached his hands up the back of my shirt so he could run his fingertips over my skin. I gripped him, but kept my hands still so he could focus on exploring me. I remembered. I remembered the foggy, tortured look on his face when he was experiencing too much stimulation at once, the way he'd halt his movements based on mine. Not always able to give and receive at the same time. But there was a dance I'd begun to learn long ago and I heard the melody—felt the rhythm—as he pressed his body against mine. I heard it and my body responded as if it was sung only for me.
I know you, Brogan. I've never forgotten.
I moaned again, our tongues sliding and gently dueling. I loved the taste of him—mint and Brogan, that indescribable something that was only him and no one else.
Our kiss became urgent, Brogan's fingertips moving lightly over every part of my skin that he could reach as if he were trying to convince himself I was really there. I felt the hard press of his arousal against my stomach and pressed back toward him. He broke from my lips, panting. "I . . ." he said, looking down at me with glazed eyes. "I . . . God, Lydia." He brought his mouth back to mine again, and we kissed for long moments. I sagged against Brogan, my body limp with need. He took my weight, holding me up with one arm around my waist while he worked my mouth like he had been born to do just that, feathering his lips down my throat and sucking at the hollow spot at the base of my neck. I was throbbing between my legs, my underwear soaked. I wanted to beg him to lay me down on the ground, undress me, spread my legs wide and fill me with his hardness, and relieve the terrible empty ache within me. If I didn't stop now, I was going to do just that. I was going to beg and plead and demand.
Breaking from Brogan's mouth, I took in a big lungful of air. "We have to . . . we . . ." I panted, trying to organize what I was trying to say.
"I know." He pulled me toward him as we both caught our breath. I rested my head against his chest, trying once again to figure out what I was feeling. "I want you, Lydia," he said, laying his forehead against mine and letting out a shaky breath as if in this, he was admitting defeat.
I tipped my head back and looked up at him. Our gazes seemed to tangle before I looked away, off to the interior door behind him. There was still so much between us, so much unresolved, untold. I would not lie to myself; I wanted him, too. Desperately. But it wasn't enough. It hadn't been then, and it definitely wasn't now. Taking his hand I started toward it, pulling him behind me. He followed. When we stepped into what had once been a small, temporary bedroom, I let go of his hand and looked at him.
"What about this, Brogan? What about what happened here? Will you ever really forgive me? Is this," I swept my hand around, indicating all that had happened here that day, "really over and done with for you?"
His gaze broke from mine, and he looked around the now-empty room, his eyes lingering on the place the small cot had once been. The place where we'd both lost our virginity what seemed like so long ago.
I walked over and stood in the spot, a wave of melancholy coming over me as I thought back to my stupid teenage dreams. "I had envisioned it like this. You'd pull me close and kiss me." I brought my fingertips to my lips re-enacting the drama of my girlish imaginings. "Your lips would be so soft, so gentle. I'd imagined kissing you so many times. I'd lie in bed and think about it, my hands wandering over my skin, pretending they were your hands touching me, stroking me. I imagined how you might taste, how your skin might smell—like boy sweat and grass." I closed my eyes and inhaled and then smiled a small, dreamy smile, placing my hands over my heart. When I opened them, Brogan had a small baffled frown on his face. "Myles would burst in and demand to know why you were kissing his girl. 'Your girl?' you'd say, before you could even think too much about it. 'She's my girl. I claim her, right here, right now. My princess. She's mine and no one else's.' And then we'd . . . I don't know, hop on one of the horses and ride off into the sunset." I dropped my arms, sighing and looking around. "I never was very good at tying up the loose ends of a plan after I'd orchestrated the exciting part." I looked at Brogan, beseeching him with my eyes. "I was sixteen and stupid. I was young and spoiled and selfish. And I should have just told you I loved you rather than setting you up. I'm sorry, Brogan. I never
meant to hurt you." I shook my head. "I never meant for things to turn out the way they did. I'm so sorry. I'm so very, very sorry." My words faded away to nothing.
Brogan's expression was a study in confusion. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. Finally, he tilted his head and asked, "You wanted me? You pulled that stunt so that . . ." He ran his hand through his hair, looking down at the floor as if it might hold the answer he was apparently looking for. After a moment, he laced his hands behind his neck and just stood that way for several minutes, grappling with something. I waited, not understanding what he was so confused about. Finally, he dropped his arms loosely by his sides and met my eyes. "You did that for me? You did that so I'd fight for you?"
I nodded my head slowly, eyeing him. "Why did you think I did it?" I asked.
"I thought . . ." He shook his head. "I thought you used me to make Myles jealous. I suppose it doesn't matter." Only, it looked like it did matter. It looked like it mattered a great deal.
"No, I wanted you. I wanted you so much I couldn't think of anything else. So much I was willing to use every trick in the book to get you. Every stupid, manipulative trick." I sighed and walked a few paces and turned around, pressing my back against the wall and sliding down to the floor. He joined me where I sat, his shoulder touching mine as we stared straight ahead.
"We went to your house the next morning, you know, my father and I. I ran to him after Stuart . . . after Stuart fired your father. I ran to mine, and he was sleeping so I woke him. He told me we'd go see your family first thing in the morning. He promised he'd fix it. He liked you. He would have. He would have fixed it. But you were gone."
"We left that night," he said. "I couldn't bear to stay another minute." He leaned his head back and hit it twice against the wall.
"Brogan . . . I . . . I want to tell you something." I swallowed heavily. "We . . . looked for you. At least, Stuart was supposed to have put every effort into tracking you down. My father was ill, so he gave that task to Stuart. I wonder now . . ." I looked down at my hands. "But anyway, we looked for you because . . . because I was pregnant." I felt his body freeze next to me before he sat up abruptly, his eyes looking straight into mine.
"Lydia, my God." He took in a sharp breath. "You had—"
"I lost the baby. I was three months along and . . ." I shook my head, a sudden flood of grief taking me by surprise. I sucked in a shaky breath, almost shocked by the power of anguish overwhelming me. But I wouldn't cry now. Not in front of Brogan. "Everyone kept saying, 'Oh, it's for the best, Lydia.' They kept saying that and I hated them for it. I hated them because if it was for the best then why did it hurt so much? They were talking about my baby. They were saying it was for the best that my baby was gone." My voice sounded dull, emotionless despite the grief that pommeled my heart. "Even when I left for college, I was still so bitter. Then my father died and—" I sucked in a breath and Brogan pulled me into him, tucking my head beneath his chin. My breathing slowed as I felt his trembling increase. Brogan's hold on me was tight and after a few minutes, he seemed to calm, his muscles relaxing and the trembling abating. I tilted my head back to look at him. His face was waxen and he looked slightly shell shocked. "Lydia, God, I—"
I placed two fingers on his lips, stopping his words. "You don't have to say anything. I'm sorry I just sprung that on you. I didn't plan it." I wet my lips. "It's just this place and . . . maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all—" Brogan sat up taller and pulled me up, his hands around my upper arms, so I was looking straight into his eyes.
"Jaysus, Lydia, it was my baby, too. Of course you should have told me. I'm just so," he shook his head, looking for a moment as if he were a lost little boy, "so sorry you went through that alone. I didn't even consider . . ." He released me and ran a still trembling hand over his face. "I guess we both suffered . . . in different ways," he said blankly, staring at the wall behind my head.
"No, you had to scrounge for food to eat. You had to do things you hated doing. You—"
"Goddamn it! We're not going to compare our sufferings now," he yelled suddenly, moving me away from him and standing up. I came to my feet, too, my legs feeling shaky beneath me. He raked both hands through his thick hair, clutching fistfuls. "This is so fucked up." He released a large breath. Bringing his hands to his hips, he said, "Your brother did find me."
I shook my head in confusion. "What?"
"Stuart, he found me in the Bronx a couple months after I left."
"No, that can't be—"
"It is. Ask him. He dropped off a bag of things we'd left at the house in our haste to leave. Nothing of any value—one of Eileen's shirts, a plastic bowl . . ." He suddenly laughed, but it morphed into a grimace. "He looked around at the rat-hole we lived in and then he left."
I leaned back against the wall. "He must have had a reason," I whispered. "He must have . . ." Had my brother truly hated Brogan that much? Why had he done that to me? He knew how desperate I was to find him. He knew.
"Oh, he had a reason. But his reasons were all about him. Tell me, Lydia, will he apologize, do you think? Will he ask for your forgiveness?"
I let out a long breath, massaging my temples. I felt a headache coming on. "I don't know. Likely not. I know you hate him for what he did, for what he caused, Brogan, but we can't change it. We have to find a way to move forward. We have to find a way to find happiness now. You're a rich, powerful man who became successful against all odds and at such a young age. You must be proud of that." I moved closer to him and took his hands in mine. "And do you know the positive that came from what I experienced? I grew up, Brogan. I grew up real fast when I was dished up a big serving of painful reality. My scheming hurt you, and I'll regret the consequences that you suffered because of it for the rest of my life. But my scheming hurt me, too. And I learned that life isn't all about me. I learned that every choice has an outcome and I learned that holding on to bitterness is a poison that eats away at you from the inside."
Brogan looked at me as if I might be crazy, his features harsh and unflinching. But as his eyes moved over my face, something gentled in his expression. "Lydia, so forgiving. If only I could let go the way you've seemed to be able to."
"You have to, Brogan. You have to or it will ruin you inside."
"Maybe I'm already ruined, Mo Chroí."
I shook my head. "No, I don't believe that. You can make this right." I squeezed his hands. Looking into his handsome face, those almost otherworldly blue eyes, I thought that what I really saw there was an aching loneliness. "You can," I whispered. "I know you can." But his silence told me he didn't agree.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brogan
I spent the rest of the day in my office, but I didn't work. I sat staring at the wall, a drink in my hand, contemplating everything that had happened in the De Havilland's former stable earlier that day. My gut clenched, and I closed my eyes again at the memory. She'd been pregnant. She'd been pregnant and alone. Yet, all these years, when I thought of Lydia, I had thought of nothing but my own misery, my own damaged pride. "Selfish fucker," I muttered, throwing back the remainder of my drink. I'd come inside her that day, and yet I had never even considered pregnancy because I'd been too caught up in my own suffering.
She'd tried to find me—or at least Stuart had been sent to find me. I was gripped by a wave of hatred so fierce I felt like it might knock me to the ground, as I remembered the disgusted look on his face when he'd come to our apartment and the way he'd left without saying a word about Lydia.
I might have eventually forgiven him for what happened in the stable after I'd made love to Lydia—maybe. But I could never forgive him for not telling me Lydia was carrying my baby when he'd had the opportunity. What if it was the stress of her situation that caused the miscarriage? I'd have a six-year-old . . . I could hardly wrap my head or my heart around it. We'd created a life.
And God, she'd asked me to meet her that day not to use me but because she'd wanted me. I was sti
ll reeling from her confession, was still hearing her voice in my head. And I should have just told you I loved you. My heart squeezed. I hadn't even considered it, had only seen it through the eyes of someone who felt so unworthy of her. And now, to some extent, because of my own devious acts, I still felt just as unworthy. Arseways. What a fecking understatement.
So what happened now? Where did this leave Lydia and me? I laid my head back against my chair and stared up at the ceiling. What a bloody mess I'd made of everything. I knew I wanted her, but what did that mean? We still had the same intense physical attraction between us. Hell, all she had to do was look at me and I was fucking hard. Kissing her today had been the most pleasurable thing I'd experienced in years, far better than any sex I'd had in the time we'd been apart. She seemed to understand me in a way no other woman ever had, and it made me feel . . . both safe and vastly unsafe in the same breath.
But the real question when it came to Lydia was, would it be a good idea to pursue more, whatever more was? Or had I created a situation where she'd never trust me and wonder at my motives, even if she understood the true nature of my desire for revenge? I wouldn't blame her if that was the case. God, I'd acted like a child and a fool. And even knowing that, there was still so much I couldn't let go of, not even for her. Namely, her fuck-up of a brother. Jaysus, the arsehole was making a bad situation worse. I hadn't even imagined that was possible. But clearly I had underestimated the complete and utter idiocy that was Stuart De Havilland. I let out a long sigh. I would have to figure all this out, but first, I needed to get dressed for dinner. I had to make some proposals to Lydia, and I had no idea how she was going to take them.