by Mimi Riser
Chapter 3
The driveway up to Ramhaillim stretched long and winding, shaded by ancient trees. In the creeping vines and brambles that grew wild and thick between gnarled trunks, Sharon imagined she could almost see scores of fairies and leprechauns hiding and watching from behind the cool shadowy cover of green leaves. She didn’t wonder that some Irishmen still believed in the Little People if other parts of the country looked as untamed as this spot.
The wild state of the grounds surprised her. Somehow she’d always pictured old manors as having expansive manicured lawns and gardens, but she was glad this manor didn’t. Wild was better, independent and intriguing. Nature was the best gardener of all.
The car rounded a sharp bend, and the towering gray walls of Ramhaillim came clearly into view. It appeared suddenly from behind the veil of tangled branches, almost as if by a magician’s conjuring trick. Spellbound, Sharon watched the house loom larger and larger as the car rolled the last few hundred yards up to the main entrance.
This wasn’t what she had expected. At all. She’d envisioned something staid and proper, with that no nonsense lack of adornment that has led some people to refer to the small estates of the late Georgian period as “palaces hidden behind prison walls.” Not Ramhaillim. It was exquisite. Outrageous. Beautiful and bizarre.
A somewhat rectangular structure built of somber gray stone blocks, but there any trace of sobriety ended. Of its three stories—tall stories—the top floor was comprised of an elaborately shingled overflow from the roof, broken up by three large, peaked, richly decorated gables. Even from her ground position, far below, Sharon thought she could make out troops of writhing griffons and unicorns…all kinds of fabled creatures carved in relief around and on the gabled window frames.
All the house’s windows—all large and many-paned—were framed with similar fanciful scenes. And the windows themselves were a mesmerizing mix of color and light, the upper portion of each being a segmented semicircle of stained glass, intricate and gem like. Jewel toned alchemy. As the last rays of the setting sun washed over them, the panes rippled and shimmered with the translucent wonder of a sparkling waterfall.
Yet the most prominent feature was the massive two-story pentagonal bay jutting out from the center of the house. It accounted for almost a third of the front width and was crowned by an ornate balcony that did indeed look like a crown set atop the queenly manor. The third-floor balcony consisted of a twisting vine-like metal railing supported by a dance line of nimble nymphs and garnished by a garrison of grinning gargoyles.
Greek bacchanal, gothic grandeur, and artistic insanity, all sprinkled with pixie dust. Majesty, magic, and myth. Put it together, and you got Ramhaillim, a fairytale mansion. A fairytale fruitcake. One bite, and a person was sure to be enchanted. Enthralled.
Sharon was. She sat in the car, transfixed, bedazzled, staring at the incredible façade. It seemed more like a dream to her than a real place. Even the wiry creepers that wove tangled paths over the stone surface added to the air of unearthly fantasy. Not until a rush of brisk air blew in on her did she realize the car had stopped and Rory was standing outside her door, holding it open for her.
“Welcome to Ramhaillim, m’lady. The name means ‘wild dreaming,’ in case you didn’t know. Allow me to escort you in,” he said with sarcastic gallantry.
Wild… How wild?
Sharon tried to shake him off as a firm hold on her elbow half helped, half hauled her from the car, but he apparently had no intention of letting go.
No, no, no. Bad Rory. He’d just broken Sharon’s new rule, the one she’d been forced to instigate since that tempestuous kiss—the first rule of their war games, as she saw it: No touching.
“I can manage, thank you.” She stumbled back a step as she finally pulled free. “I’m not some helpless infant.”
“Yes, darlin’, I had noticed.”
A smoky gaze eyed her up and down, stirring warm tingles in traitorous female flesh. Bad body. Sharon hoisted her rocky resolve up by its frayed bootstraps.
Rule two: No leering.
“I’m glad your eyesight isn’t as poor as your manners are. At least you’re capable of seeing—even if you haven’t yet learned that it’s damn rude to stare.”
Oh, dear. Bad Sharon. She’d said a naughty word. If he tried to spank her again, Rory was a dead man.
He yanked her against him instead. A hard yank. A harder chest. A wickedly seductive whisper in her ear. Her breath caught in her throat.
Uh-oh…
“Well now, it appears to me you still have a few things to learn about manners yourself, colleen. You’re awfully quick with that delightful mouth of yours—though I can’t say I much care for what comes out of it. Shall I give you another lesson in holding your tongue? If I recall correctly, the last one worked wonders.”
Rule three, the biggest rule: No kissing!
Unfortunately, Rory hadn’t read the rulebook. He was, Sharon realized, playing by his own rules, which to him meant no rules, no holds barred. In the several hours she’d known him, he’d created more turbulent sensations inside her than any other man she’d known (and she’d known more than a few, though not in the biblical sense, but that was another story). The fact Rory always seemed aware of the turbulence he caused her only made matters worse. He had no shame.
And suddenly neither did she.
The kiss struck like lightning—and just as electric. Hot and hungry, Rory’s mouth covered hers, devouring all resistance. His arms tightened around her, a wildfire embrace. A devastating demand. Torrid temptation.
What was a girl to do?
Sharon kissed him back.
Yeah, well, she was impetuous.
Sometimes the best defense is a good offense, right?
She dug her fingers into his hair to anchor him in place, pressed forward and met his passion head-on.
Crash!
Take that, Rory Egan.
Being Irish, he’d probably never seen a July Fourth fireworks display. In the generous spirit of international diplomatic relations, Sharon showed him one. Hell, she was a fireworks display. She exploded all over him, kissing and clutching.
Rory, no doubt, didn’t know what hit him. His own fault, of course. He started this. He had no one but himself to blame if she finished it.
Which she did, with a sudden sharp jab.
Her knee to his groin.
In her current high-keyed state, it had been either deck him, or rip his clothes off and ravish him. And she wasn’t that kind of girl (even if her vocabulary implied otherwise). She was, in fact, a virgin, but not a helpless one—which was why she was, because God knew a lot of guys had tried. Kathleen hadn’t raised her granddaughter to be free with her favors. One promiscuous O’Shaughnessy had been quite enough.
Sharon’s father had felt forced to marry her mother because he’d gotten her pregnant. They’d been miserable together, but to an Irish Catholic boy, divorce wasn’t an option. Suffering postpartum depression after their daughter’s birth, on top of the marital problems, his young wife had taken matters into her own hands and driven them top speed into a tree. Kathleen had told Sharon the story when Sharon was fourteen, and Kathleen caught her behind a barn, smooching a stable boy. It had been enough to keep Sharon from ever going “too far.”
Until Rory Egan appeared.
The idea that he could easily turn her into a wanton woman was what bothered Sharon the most about him. But she’d be hauled over hot coals before she’d admit it. Better to burn him.
So she had.
Gasping, he staggered back from her blow, his eyes blazing. “What the devil was that for?”
She narrowed her gaze, her own breathing as ragged as his. “Three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”
He spat out a stream of Gaelic, probably figuring she wouldn’t understand, but she did, thanks to a bilingual grandmother. Sharon wasn’t fluent in Irish, but knew enough to know he’d just cursed a blue streak. With a stiff a
bout-face Rory turned his back on her, pulling himself together, perhaps readjusting something in the front of his pants. When he turned back, he looked like his cocksure self again—an iron man, not easily dented. She should have hit him harder.
He took a step toward her. “You hate me that much, do you?”
“More.” She took a step back.
“Why do I find that difficult to believe? It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact you were just kissing me, could it?” He grinned.
She didn’t. “Oh sure, throw that in my face.”
Rory arched a single dark brow—exactly the way Sean Connery did it in the Bond flicks.
Sharon went livid. “Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“The eyebrow thing. It makes you look like James Bond.” She groaned. “God, I love it when he does that look.”
“Ah, and you think it might make you love me, too?”
Eek! What a ghastly suggestion.
“Bite your tongue, boy!”
“I’d rather suck yours.”
Sharon stifled a scream.
Rory let out a loud peal of laughter.
“Sharon, are all American girls as crazy as you?”
“Rory, do you want to be kneed in the nuts again?”
“Try it, darlin’, and you’ll get a real spanking, not the love taps I gave you before.”
Grrr…
Was there no way to win with this guy?
Her hands fisted. Her chest heaved with rapid breaths. She could feel herself hyperventilating, knew she must be blushing a ripe cherry red.
“If I am crazy, you drove me there,” she said in a low quivering voice. “You’re a real bastard, you know that don’t you? You are a thoroughly reprehensible human being—that is if you are human. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn you’re the devil incarnate. You sure treat me like hell. Why? Does it give you a sadistic thrill? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
There.
A good speech, she thought, verbal evisceration. During it, the last sliver of sun had vanished. In the twilight shadows, Rory did look satanic, a tall dark figure with a stony face and searing eyes. A voice like crushed velvet, sultry and sinful.
“I wasn’t aware I’d caused you any great injury. A kiss, darlin’, that’s all it was. And it seemed to me you were enjoying it as much as I was. I’ll wager I could kiss you again and prove that point. But I won’t. Frankly, Sharon, I’m tired. Of you. So it looks like we’ve finally found something we can agree on. I’ll leave you alone, far alone, and gladly. Have no fears on that. I’m a bastard—and you’re a bitch.”
“Glad you noticed.”
“You never give up, do you?” He sighed. “Enter the house whenever you please. It’s half yours. I can’t keep you out.”
Damn straight.
Sharon stood rooted to the ground, staring at Rory’s muscular back as he strode to the massive front door and went inside. He was tired? She was suddenly exhausted, drained of all emotion. Slowly, on legs of lead, she started toward the house, a strange sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Why, she didn’t know. She’d gotten what she wanted. Rory wouldn’t bother her anymore. She’d won.
So how come she felt like she’d lost?