“Give me a minute, love. Please.”
It was the please that stopped her. Sloane swallowed. Pointedly pulling her hand out from under that warm strength, she sat back in her seat, folded her arms and leveled an expectant look at him. She would have rather left the bar without a backwards glance, but she couldn’t keep running from him. He was right; the damn island wasn’t big enough. They had to sort this here and now.
“Mac—“
“I was wrong to push so hard, so fast. I willna do it again.” He glanced at her, those eyes a determined grey in the golden lights as he slid one of the mugs over pointedly. “Now have a damme drink with me and let’s call it pax.”
She almost laughed, the apology was so Mac. But she didn’t because she knew those words had to have cost him. This was a man who would be hard-pressed to admit defeat, even over his own dead body. Besides, she could use the damn drink. Not only her parents, but Josh had called her today. Repeatedly. Which was why her cell phone was currently at Jenny’s flat, stuffed under a pillow where she couldn’t see the flashes of light when another silenced call went to voice mail.
“So you’re giving up?” she said lightly, just to see what he’d say.
He was quiet so long she glanced up, only to bite back a gasp. His eyes had narrowed to dangerous slits. “Fuck no.”
Well, you couldn’t say he wasn’t honest. She let out her breath, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “Oh all right then. Slainte.”
“Slainte.”
They both drank. He smiled at her in that old, easy way that made her feel like she’d had a shot of brandy instead of beer. Warm and sweet and tingly, all the way down to her toes. He’s going to behave, Sloane, she scolded herself, so you better, too.
“Where’s Jenny?” he asked, putting his mug down. “I woulda thought she’d be here to celebrate with ye.”
“Her and Gery went down to his place in Peel yesterday after her shift. Got up this morning to come home and someone stole her car.”
Mac blinked at her over his beer. “Her car?”
She giggled. “I know. But apparently, it’s gone.”
“Tha’ girl has the most shite luck,” he said wonderingly.
“No kidding. Remember the chicken feathers?”
He threw his head back and laughed so hard the table hummed under her hands. “Oh aye. Or when her bike crashed through Mr. Auden’s gate and scared the literal piss out of his new prize bull? He never could get the damn thing to cover any of his cows after that. Scared of his own shadow, the poor thing was. Biggest bull on the island and Jenny rendered him impotent.”
Sloane snorted. “Did Mr. Auden ever forgive her for that one?”
“Hell no. He crosses to the other side of the street every time he sees her coming and makes the old sign to ward off evil.”
They grinned at each other. Jenny kept her up to date with most of the goings on in Ramsey, but she’d forgotten how easy Mac could be to talk to. Hardly a surprise, since they hadn’t really talked in years. She frowned into her beer, realizing that more than the man, she’d missed the friend. When she raised her eyes again, he was looking at her, a gentle look in his eyes that made her heart tighten up. Maybe he had missed her, too. Maybe Mac was telling the truth.
A throat cleared and both Mac and Sloane glanced up, startled. Keith was standing there, a cell in his hand. “It’s your da, Sloane. Says he canna raise you on your cell. Sounds a mite worried.”
Worried about his bank balance, Sloane thought, staring at the phone Keith was holding out as if it might bite her. Mac frowned, but Sloane excused herself before he could say anything, snatching the phone from Keith with a hasty thank you.
“Sloane! Your mother and I have been so worried.”
“Why?” Sloane said, her tone short as she stepped away from the table.
“We heard there was an attack. Honey, why didn’t you call?”
The constable had taken care to protect Sloane’s privacy from the papers, but she should have known someone in Ramsey would call them. Instantly, her wariness was replaced by a wave of guilt. “I’m sorry,” she said, her tone softening. “But I was fine. I would have called if it were anything serious.”
“Well, that is good to know,” her father said heartily.
“Should I say something to Mom?”
“Oh, she’s not here right now. Off to the spa with Mary.” The slightest of hesitations, but it was enough to make her stomach sink. Here it comes. “Speaking of which, things are a little tight this month. We could use…”
Tight this month? Her father had made 50k a month before he’d retired the year after Sloane’s third book had come out. He had an enormous pension, a house Sloane had paid off several books ago and a love for playing the market that usually served him very well. But it was never enough.
The need for money, she could have handled, if love had come with it. But more and more, Sloane felt like she had always been a pretty accessory to her parents’ pretty life. Maybe they did care about her, as much as they were capable of caring about anyone.
With a sigh, she cut him off. “How much?”
By the time she returned the phone to Keith, Sloane needed more than just a beer. She returned to their table with a bottle of Jameson’s and a determined expression. “Let’s celebrate me getting my keys.”
Mac eyed her warily as he cracked the bottle. “Forgive me, love, but ye doona look much in the mood for celebration. What’s wrong?”
Her eyes started to sting and before she knew it, she was telling Mac everything. Things she hadn’t even gotten around to telling Jenny, or had avoided telling her. Like how she wondered sometimes if she were adopted, because it didn’t feel like her parents cared about her the way people should care about their only child. That the older she got, the more keenly she felt that distance.
After a few more shots, she admitted that maybe she felt that way because sometimes she had dreams of a deep and abiding parental love, one that made her feel cherished and safe and protected, a feeling she’d never been able to capture in waking life.
When she laughed self-consciously, admitting she was probably letting her imagination get the better of her, a professional hazard for a writer, Mac captured her hand across the table. He didn’t say anything, just squeezed hard, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist.
He let her go after a moment and the conversation turned to easier things, but Sloane had a hard time forgetting how much his touch had comforted her or the way understanding had radiated from him.
An hour later, they were pushed out of the pub by a frowning Keith. For the second time in less than two weeks, Sloane was snoockered. When Mac suggested they head up the hill to Conla’s to absorb some of the excess Guinness with her famous fish pie, Sloane agreed without a thought. Neither of them mentioned the failed date.
She stumbled once, the heel of her boot catching in the cobblestones, and he offered her his arm with a smile. After a second’s hesitation, she took it, her fingers resting lightly on his forearm, feeling the play of muscle as he supported her up the hill.
Watching his profile as they meandered up the streets in the moonlight, her pleasant buzz and the long conversation sent her thoughts wandering. In a lot of ways, Mac was bizarrely old-fashioned. Like many islanders, the modern era seemed to have passed him by. Maybe he really had been trying to do the right thing back when he’d pushed her away. Maybe she’d overreacted because of the hurt he’d caused her. If Mac truly regretted what he’d done, if he’d missed her all these years, who’s to say he didn’t deserve a second chance?
He glanced down at her and his jaw flexed once. “Dammit, doona look at me like tha’.”
Something dangerous took hold of her as she met his eyes. Part of it was the alcohol, sure. But part of it was just a sudden, fierce need to cut loose from all the heavy baggage weighing her down, to float above it and be free. To take a chance without being paralyzed by doubt, the way she had five years ago. “Why no
t, Mac?”
“I said I wouldna push ye again.”
“This isn’t pushing. This is me pulling.” Her fingers pressed against his coat, then curled into the woolen lapels, her lips quirking up in an unspoken question.
His mouth slanted over hers in answer, dark and rich and tasting faintly of Guinness and the sharper tang of whiskey. It wasn’t like before, when he’d taken what he wanted in a blaze of heat and fire. This was more a soft glow, like embers when you blow on them gently, waiting for the fire to catch hold…
All too soon, Mac pulled back with a groan that was half a curse. “Shouldna have done tha’. Damme, Sloane.”
Sloane blinked and shook herself, pushing away from his chest with far too much reluctance. “It’s okay, Mac. I didn’t mean to . . .” Actually, she definitely had meant to. She sighed and pushed at her hair, feeling dazed. “We’re both a little tipsy.”
“I’m a man. I doona do tipsy. ” He took a step back and immediately swayed, one massive hand crashing into the roof of a nearby car, setting off a shrieking alarm.
Sloane giggled at the look on his face, which was somewhere between appalled and sheepish. When he glowered at her, she burst into laughter, one arm wrapped around her stomach. Across the street a door opened and an angry voice called out. Sloane was laughing too hard to make out the words or the owner of the thick accent, but Mac replied, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Oy, keep yer shirt on, Dougal! I doona plan on stealing yer precious Volvo.”
“Mac? Is tha’ you? What in the blazes are ye—” But Mac grabbed Sloane’s arm and pulled her into the alley, then down another crooked street and another, until Sloane was turned around and around. She knew Ramsey almost like a native, but between the alcohol and that kiss, she was disoriented. It seemed in no time at all they were at the beach, overlooking a sea that was full of gentle swells, moonlight gleaming on the back of dark rolling waves. Sloane breathed deeply, the strange back and forth of this night finally settling into peace, her whole being inhaling the aura of this place.
“Ye truly love it here.” She turned to see Mac watching her, his eyes unreadable in the dark.
She lifted her arms, as if to embrace the star-dotted sky. “Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels like home, Mac. Like the one place in the whole world that I am safe.” She laughed and spun in a woozy circle, loving the feel of her hair dancing on the night wind. “I suppose that sounds mad? Paranoid even.”
“Nae,” he whispered almost roughly. “It doona. Ye are safe here, Sloane. I promise ye tha’.”
After a minute, he held out his hand. “Come on, Conla closes the doors at eleven.”
10
Actually, the door was already locked when they finally made it to Blackfriar’s. But when Mac pulled her round to the kitchen door and knocked, Conla let them in at once. She was a spare woman, all sharp corners without a trace of fluff. Sloane had often wondered if she ever indulged in her own food, but despite the visual austerity of her form, Conla was warm and generous.
She soon had them seated in the tiny dining room, two plates of warm fish pie and a heaping pile of chips and the prerequisite bottle of vinegar between them. Just like the Irish, the Manx served some form of potatoes with everything.
Conla bustled back into the kitchen with a wave of her striped dishcloth, advising them they could let themselves out when they were done.
Both she and Mac took a moment to sniff appreciatively, grinning at each other. Sloane cut into the buttery crust that immediately welled with savory goodness. She groaned as she lifted it to her lips. “It’s been too long since I’ve eaten Conla’s food.”
Mac chuckled. “I say that all the time and I eat here twice a week.”
The blend of savory herbs, rich creamy sauce and melt-in-your-mouth fish was like orgasm on a fork. She swallowed and sighed, speaking without thinking. “Damn, if I had waited to fight with you until after we ate, I could have had this days ago.”
He raised an eyebrow, then grinned, white teeth flashing. “True. But you’ve always been a stubborn little thing.”
“Have I?”
“Aye. Who else gets a book published at the age of nineteen?”
“I thought you didn’t approve of my books.”
“Sloane,” he sighed. “It wasn’t the books themselves I’m opposed to, it’s the attention they draw. I dislike the idea of you being in the spotlight. It’s dangerous.”
With a shiver, Sloane remembered the white-haired man. Mac certainly had a point. For awhile, they ate in silence. Sloane wasn’t sure if it her still-impaired state was to blame, but she was so aware of the man across from her that it became hard to focus on the delicious food. The way the low lighting brought out the deep red in his hair. And made the gold in his beard glint, highlighting the hard planes of his face, the sensual curve of his mouth. Mac had taken off his coat, slinging it over his chair. The movement of his shoulders under thick black Henley he wore made her lips press together, remembering the way he’d look without it.
He had pushed up his sleeves, and watching his forearms flex as he cut up his pie, her throat went dry. Reaching for her water, she took a slow sip, food momentarily forgotten. What was it about the power and wiry strength of that innocuous part of a man’s body that made her ache? Then there was his hands, darkened by the sun, roughened by hard, physical work…
“Ye keep staring at me like tha’,” Mac growled, making her jump, “and it wonna be only this pie tha’ I’m eating tonight, promise or no’.”
Sloane gasped. Then her jaw tightened and she lifted her chin. “It’s your fault, making me think about having an affair with you.”
“I didna say anything about an affair, tha’ was ye.” His dark tone had her hesitating, but the alcohol in her veins made her ask the question anyway.
“But you don’t want that?” she swallowed once as Mac went still.
The silence between them spun out, becoming uncomfortable for the first time since the beginning of the evening. When Mac finally shook his head, she was almost relieved. Almost.
“Why not?” she said, setting her fork down.
“I’m no’ saying we willna end up in bed, because we will.” The way his gaze darkened as he looked at her made Sloane grab her own glass of water and take a hasty drink. Mac’s lips curved. “But it willna be started on a night when either of us have been drinking. And I willna let ye pretend it’s anything less than wha’ it is.” His voice hardened. “Like it or no’, I meant wha’ I said, Sloane. Ye are mine. I’ll give ye time to get used to the idea, but this isn’t about sex.” He hesitated and then grinned wickedly. “Or no’ jus about sex.”
Sloane’s stomach tightened painfully as she looked into that familiar handsome face. He was drawing her in, making her want the dream again. And damn if that didn’t piss her off. “What do you really know of me?”
“Everything,” he said without a trace of irony, taking a sip of water as she looked at him askance.
“Mac, except for tonight, we’ve barely talked in years. You don’t know who I am, not really.”
He set his drink down with a thump. “Ye think I doona know who ye are?” His eyes darkened. “Remember the colt, Sloane?”
Despite herself, Sloane’s hand flew to her mouth, and tears filled her eyes.
She’d been sixteen that summer, nearly seventeen. She’d had a fight with her folks and fled the rental they’d had that summer. Normally, they rented from Mac, in town, but that summer they had rented the Watterson place. She’d found herself outside Mac’s stable, as she had so many times that summer and others. He had a mare with foal and it was no surprise to see the lights on in the barn.
Hoping to chase away her foul mood, Sloane had stepped inside, only to see Mac’s stricken face over the stall door.
“Can I help?” But when she got close enough to see inside, it was clear no one could help. Blood pooled between piles of straw. The mare w
as gone, and a weak, knobbly-legged foal lay crumpled in a corner. Mac had torn the birth sac over his mouth and nose, but the poor thing was barely breathing.
“Vet’s over to Peel and I canna get no one else. No’ tha’ will make much difference. Best go on home, Sloane, I’ll do me best, but…you doona want to be here for this.” She could remember his weary words as if it were yesterday. Furious, she’d stalked into the stall.
“Tell me what to do.”
And he had, but Mac swore after it had been Sloane that had pulled the colt through the long night. She was the one who finally got him to stand, two full hours after his mother had died.
Seeing that tiny, toothpick-legged little creature swaying on four hoofs at last, his big dark eyes blinking at her had made her spin right around, tears pouring down her face.
It was the first time she’d felt Mac’s arms around her.
That night was whole reason she’d bought the Watterson place.
That was also the night she realized she loved Mac. Really loved him. It had rocked her. Obviously, it had made an impression on Mac as well.
“I still have him, you know.”
She blinked. “You do?”
“Aye,” Mac took a bite of his pie, watching her teary eyes go wide. “I’ll never get rid of that fucking horse.”
She fisted her napkin until her knuckles ached. “Mac,” she whispered, then stopped, unable to say anything further.
“Ye saved him. Because tha’ is the way ye’ve always been. Ye grab onto what matters and ye hang on, even when it hurts ye something terrible. Tis why ye came back to me.”
“I didn’t come back to Manx because of you, Mac,” she said again, but this time Sloane could hear the lack of conviction in her own words.
Obviously Mac did, too. He took a lazy drink of water before digging back into his pie. “Yes, ye did, love. And one day soon, ye’ll realize it, but don’t ever tell me I don’t know ye, Sloane. I’ve seen your soul, I’ve been protecting it fer years. It captured me a long, long time ago, though it took me a while to admit it. When I did, I thought I was wrong, powerfully wrong to be wanting something I didna think I had any right to. ’Tis why I pushed ye away,” he finished.
Lightning In Sea (CELTIC ELEMENTALS Book 3) Page 7