Kiss My Blarney Stone: War Games (Part 1 of a 3 Part Serial)
Page 9
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The room they gave her at Ramhaillim was on the third floor, low-ceilinged and sprawling compared to the other rooms Sharon had seen so far, but it still had that fairytale aura that pervaded the rest of the house; a striking combination of dark and light, heavy and delicate, solid and ethereal. Alone in the chamber, Sharon wandered about, experimentally bouncing on the large four-poster bed, getting down on hands and knees to examine one of the chest-of-drawers’ legs—carved like a lion’s paw—tracing a finger over a finely etched pale blue blossom on the wallpaper…
She loved the look and feel of the old-world furnishings. Most of the room’s pieces were crafted from dark wood that had been rubbed and polished to a soft luster, warm and satiny to the touch. Besides the bed and chest-of-drawers, there was a huge bureau topped by a king-sized mirror, a bedside table, a roll-top desk and wing-backed chair, and a small armless rocker with an embroidered cushion.
Her sneakers made little sound on the gleaming hardwood floor, and none at all on the faded Persian carpet centered before the room’s only source of daylight—a pair of French windows set into the sloping wall opposite the door. Though it was too dark by this time to see through the windows from where she stood, Sharon realized they must open out onto the balcony she’d admired on her arrival.
She was just about to draw the windows’ blue brocade drapes together when the moon shone out from behind a cloud, spilling a silvery stream of light over the balcony’s stone figures, giving them a wan, weirdly lifelike appearance—almost as if they were living creatures under some strange enchantment, frozen in a dreamless trance while their shadows danced eerily through the night. Sharon stood silent, gazing out at them, lost in a frozen trance of her own.
“Don’t you just love it? This is one of the spiffiest rooms in the whole house,” sounded a cheery young voice from behind her, breaking the spell.
Sharon whirled around to see a small slender girl of about eleven slouched back against the inside doorframe. The kid wore dilapidated denim bellbottoms and a tie-dyed sweatshirt at least two sizes too big for her. Sprite-like features were capped by a thick mass of short tawny curls that sprang buoyantly up and down with an independent energy when she tilted her head to meet Sharon’s bemused stare. She could easily have passed for a badly dressed elf.
“Hi. You’re Sharon, right? I’m Bridget Mary Connolly.” She grinned, displaying a mouthful of shining metal. “But most people call me Bree—except my great-grandmom. You know what grandmothers are like.”
“Um, yeah, I do,” Sharon said with a bittersweet smile. “You’re Maurya’s great-granddaughter? But you’re American, aren’t you?”
The sloppy pixie swept dramatically into the room. “You mean ‘American’ as in apple pie? Hot dogs? Baseball? Donny and Marie Osmond!… Not me. I’m from Philadelphia.” She collapsed giggling onto the bed. “They didn’t tell you about me, did they? Surprised?”
“Totally.” Sharon sank down beside her. “When Maurya told me she was going to fetch her great-granddaughter, I expected some quiet little Irish colleen with long braids and a plaid shawl, not a smart-alecky tomboy fresh off the Philly streets,” she teased. “Dare I ask what you’re doing here? No, wait. I’d better brace myself for this.” She straddled one of the end bedposts, grasping it with both hands while staring at Bree with a bug-eyed silly gaze. “Okay, I think I’m all set now. Fire when ready!”
Bree howled with laughter and rolled off the bed, clutching her sides. “Oh wow, I can tell things are gonna be a hoot now you’re here.”
“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.” Grinning, Sharon hoisted a heavy suitcase onto the bed. “Would you like to help me unpack?”
“Out-a-sight!” Bree nodded emphatically, her curls flying every which way. “That’s one of the reasons I came up here. I never miss a chance to look at other people’s junk.”
“You’re in luck then, ’cause I’ve got a lot of it.”
The imp gave her another gleaming metallic smile. “You’re really cool, Sharon. I’m glad you’re here. Oh, let me do that for you.” She took the pile of clothes that Sharon had been on the verge of dropping into the first drawer that came within reach, and sorted through them, putting the garments away according to category. “I like organizing stuff.”
“Great, because I don’t. So what are you doing in Ireland? Besides organizing, I mean.”
“Not much so far,” came a lackluster reply. “My dad sent me over so I could learn about my ‘Celtic heritage.’ You know how there’s been so much talk lately about people getting back to their roots? Well, Dad went gung-ho on it. First chance he got, he sent me to his grandmother here. They’re even trying to teach me Irish Gaelic… I’m putting your socks and underwear in the top drawer. Okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Sharon dumped the contents of a duffle bag onto the bed. “You don’t seem very excited about being here. You know, there are a lot of kids who’d be thrilled to have an opportunity like this. You should consider yourself lucky. I couldn’t wait to get to Ireland myself.”
“I know.” Bree giggled. “Rory was really mad when Mr. Skerrett told him you’d be here so soon.”
“Was he really?”
Good.
“Yep. I learned some great new Gaelic words that day. But they’re the kind Grandmom won’t let me use. People are always bugging me to settle down and act like a lady.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Sharon suppressed a smile. She’d been a tomboy once, too. “Things can’t be that bad, can they? You have the chance right now to have all kinds of great new experiences. You should soak it up, learn all you can. And your great-grandmother is one of the sweetest women I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, I know! I love her a lot! And I like Ramhaillim, too. It’s just that…well, it gets kinda lonely sometimes. Y’know? There are no kids here. I miss my friends back home.”
Sharon wrapped an arm around her. “You don’t always have to depend on people your own age for companionship. Why, I’ve been standing here just hoping you and I could become real good friends. What do you say?” She gave the girl’s shoulders a squeeze. “I could sure use a friend here.”
An enthusiastic hug knocked the wind out of her.
“Out-a-sight! We can be a team—you, me, and Rory. Sorta like the Three Musketeers, huh?”
More like the Three Stooges.
Shit. How had Rory gotten into the picture. And how could she get him out?
“Oh, we don’t need him, do we?” Sharon didn’t. She ruffled Bree’s curls. “Sometimes a guy just gets in the way when two girls want to have fun.”
“Rory won’t. He’s fun, too.”
Since when?
“He’s been real nice to me,” Bree persisted. “If it wasn’t for him, I’d be bored bonkers by now. He finds me things to do and tells me jokes.”
He was a joke.
Sharon gritted her teeth into a grin. “Gee, what a great guy.”
“Yeah,” Bree agreed, except she obviously meant it. “He’s teaching me to horseback ride. I’ll bet he’ll teach you, too.”
“I already know how to ride, sweetie.”
“You do? Neat! Then we can all go riding together.” Bree smiled, the matter apparently settled in her mind.
Sharon sighed. What had she gotten herself into now? When she’d jumped at the chance to help care for and ride Rory’s horses before, she hadn’t actually envisioned him riding with her.
“Yikes!” Bree held up an evening gown in front of herself. Sharon had bought it for one of those hoity-toity social functions the upper crust Oliver used to take her to. “Do you really wear stuff like this?”
“On rare occasions,” Sharon deadpanned. “Don’t look so shocked. You’ll probably own some gowns like that yourself in several years.”
“Fat chance. I hate wearing any kind of dresses. They make me feel all fidgety.” Bree shuddered and hung up the offending garment. “At least it’s not as bad as s
ome of the stuff Fionula wears.” The girl made a gagging noise.
“Fionula?” For some inexplicable reason, Sharon’s spine stiffened.
“Fionula O’Flaherty. She’s got red hair and big boobs. Rory likes her. I don’t.”
Neither did Sharon, but she couldn’t imagine why. She had nothing against boobs, after all. She had a decent rack herself.
“Grandmom says she acts like a common stiusai. That’s Gaelic for ‘hussy.’ I heard one of the stable boys saying she’s gone down on everything but the Titanic—whatever that means.”
“It’s guy talk; it doesn’t mean anything,” Sharon sidestepped the remark. “What else do the stable hands say?”
Not that she cared, of course.
“Oh, just that she and Rory have been friends since they were kids, and she’s got her eye on him. Stuff like that. Padraic says she’s ‘going to let Rory chase her until she catches him.’” Bree deposited the last of the clothes into the bureau. “She comes out here a lot. You’ll probably meet her before long.”
“I can hardly wait,” Sharon drawled.
“Bridget Mary!” sounded Maurya’s clear voice from the bottom of the stairs. “The moon’s up, and the Wee Folk will be dancin’. If you want to see them, you’ll have to go to sleep, dear, for they’ll only show themselves in your dreams. Come down and wash up for bed.”
Bree rolled her eyes at Sharon. “She makes this stuff up all the time. Every night it’s a different story,” she whispered. “Aw, Grandmom, do I hafta?” she called.
“Sure you do. Morning comes soon, dear, and a growing girl needs her rest. A girl also should look like a girl every now and a bit, so maybe tomorrow you might find a dress to wear? Not that I’d know you if you did”—Maurya chuckled—“but it’s still a sight I’d like to see.”
“A dress?” Bree snorted, heading for the door. “It’d ruin my image! Besides, Rory likes me in pants.” With a mischievous grin, she vanished as quickly as she had appeared.
Sharon kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the bed. Like a sudden torrent of rain the events of the past forty-eight hours stormed down on her until her ears pounded with the thunder of her own thoughts—everything from Mr. Skerrett’s letter till now… Had it all happened in only two days?
She curled up fetal, hugging a pillow. Its smooth surface felt cool against her hot cheek, but the fever in her soul wasn’t so easily soothed. Every path her mind traveled dead-ended at the same spot. However she tried to channel her thoughts, they boomeranged back and back again to one image.
Rory.
What was this devilish power the man had over females? Maurya, Bree, Fionula…they all appeared to be smitten with him in their own separate ways. God only knew how many others he’d bewitched.
But not Sharon. And she told him so—even though he was nowhere near at the moment (for which she was truly grateful).
“I refuse to be added to your list of conquests,” she vowed aloud. “You won’t find me falling under your black spell.”
The words sounded good to her ears.
Strong. Affirmative.
Now if only she could believe them.
Continued in Part 2…
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Sneak-peek
Excerpt from Part 2:
Sharon didn’t know what had woken her. It wasn’t quite light outside—even the birds weren’t up yet. She stayed cuddled up in bed, eyes shut, expecting to drift back to sleep, but discovered she felt quite rested—energetic even. Flinging off the covers, she reached for her robe, bundling into it while she stepped into her slippers.
Brrr…
The bedroom air felt frigid after the heavy warmth of the quilts she slept under. Oliver had been right about one thing; central heating had not yet been installed in Ramhaillim. And wouldn’t be, if Sharon had anything to say about it. She liked waking up to a chilly room. Seriously. It got the blood circulating and got you up and moving.
And it made the warmth of Maurya’s kitchen and a hot breakfast seem an extra special treat. A grand way to start the day. Sharon could almost taste the feast that would be waiting for her downstairs. Breakfast in the British Isles, especially the Celtic corners, could be a hearty affair, not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach—and she was neither.
It amazed her how fast, how easily, she’d fallen into the daily routine of the household. With six days and seven nights behind her, she felt more at home here than she had anywhere else for a long time—too long—not since her grandmother was alive.
Damn.
She shook off the bittersweet blues. The gradually brightening sky outside gave promise of a beautiful day to come. Kathleen of all people would want her to enjoy it.
Sharon washed and dressed in her riding breeches and boots and a cable-knit sweater, then paused a moment in the center of the room, savoring the cool quiet of the morning. An early sunbeam fell across her feet, pointing like an arrow to the French windows, beckoning…
Slowly she moved toward them, pulled back the latch, and stepped out onto the stone balcony. She’d been out here numerous times before, but never so early in the day. The landscape looked different in the lavender-gray hues of dawn—softer somehow, its ruggedness mellowed, subdued.
An unusually clear morning. The strong wind must have blown the night mist out to sea. Looking out over the tops of the estate’s trees and across grassy, rock-strewn fields, Sharon could see all the way to Galway Bay in the distance.
She stood clutching the cold iron railing, inhaling the invigorating salt snap in the air, reveling in the brisk feel of the wind. Its gusts were wreaking havoc on the work she’d done with her comb, but Sharon couldn’t be bothered by something like that. She’d never been one to fuss over her face or hair—never been the sort to stand idle overlong either.
She glanced at her watch.
Still early.
Too early for breakfast. Everything was so quiet, so still. No one else seemed even to be stirring yet—except for Padraic, of course; he’d be out back at the stable, feeding the horses.
Would he like some help?
Not from her probably.
Still, she had to do something. She wondered if Rory would mind if she “stole” one of his horses for a bit and took an early ride. He had been behaving himself pretty well these past days, but Sharon was sure that was due only to Bree’s constant presence by her side. An eleven-year-old made a great chaperone, made him keep his hands to himself. With a child watching and listening, Rory had to stick to the “rules.”
But Bree wasn’t here now. And though the lure of a dawn ride tempted her tremendously, Sharon decided it wasn’t worth risking Rory’s wrath. Hell, if their positions were reversed, and his horses were hers—didn’t she wish—she wouldn’t want someone cantering off without asking first.
For Rory, horses weren’t just a business; they were clearly a great passion in his life. A passion Sharon understood and shared. (It was his other passion that rankled her; the guy had a libido the size of a bus.) As long as they stuck to the subject of horses, she and he got along fine. Really, a man who raised such beautiful steeds had to be forgiven a few eccentricities—but not too many.
She pulled away from the invigorating view, shoved aside irksome thoughts. It wouldn’t hurt anything to just stroll down to the stable and hang around until breakfast. She loved the smell of the horses and hay, the scent of the leather in the tack room. She didn’t even mind the odor of the manure. To Sharon, the combination of it all smelled like home. A sensory reminder of happy days with her grandmother…
She’d better watch it. This place was getting under her skin. Ramhaillim Manor would be difficult to leave when the time came.
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Padraic was nowhere to be seen when she reached the stable, nor was anyone else. Probably just as well. She had nothing against the old man, but got the impression he wasn’t overly fond of her. Nothing to worry about, Maurya said, he was always wary of strangers.
Still, Sharon was glad to find herself alone. She’d had little time to herself since her arrival in Ireland. But it was peaceful now in the large stable. Just her and the horses. And they didn’t talk much.
“Well now, you’re up bright and early this fine morning.”
Or did they?
She turned with a start to meet smiling Irish eyes.
Guess who?
Shit.
“You scared me.” She collapsed back against a wall. “I didn’t think there was anyone out here.”
“Forgive me,” Rory apologized, though he didn’t seem especially repentant. (Did he ever?) “I should’ve knocked before entering. It doesn’t do to spook the fillies.” He was trying not to laugh at her flustered condition—but he wasn’t trying very hard.
Sharon started glancing about for an escape route.
“No, wait, I am sorry.” That sounded more sincere. “I shouldn’t be teasing you.”
“Oh, go ahead and joke.” She threw up her hands in surrender—to the situation, not to him. “This is your territory. I’m the one who’s intruding.”
“Nevertheless, a gentleman should never take advantage of a lady’s distress.”
Like that had ever stopped him before?
He leaned forward onto the wall she was backed against, resting a hand on each side of her, penning her in.
“I can think of a number of colorful and descriptive epithets for you”—some of which he’d already heard—“but ‘gentleman’ is not one of them.” She ducked beneath his arm.
“You wound my very heart!” He slapped a hand over the injured organ.
“I didn’t know you had one.”
Rory winced as though stabbed. “Ah, what a cold, cruel wench you are.”
“I thought I was a bitch.”
“Same thing.”
They’d both begun choking back laughter.
“Woman, is there no pity in your soul?”
“None for an alfraits like you,” she cursed him in Gaelic, calling him a rascally rogue.
Well, he was.
“I must speak to Maurya about the Irish she’s teaching you,” he said dryly.
“Oh, I didn’t learn that from Maurya.”
“Bree then? That child is acquiring quite a rich vocabulary.”
Sharon let loose her laughter.
“Rory, I may be American, but I’m Irish American, raised by a grandmother who cursed like a trooper in both languages.”
“You speak Irish?” He looked worried.
She knew why. “Not fluently, but enough to know you blistered the air several nights ago.”
She smirked.
He blushed.
Delightful.
“So anyway, now you know where I get my mouth from. And I will apologize for busting your balls, if you will apologize for spanking me.”
“Sharon, that spanking was nothing. You hit me harder than I hit you, and you know it.”
“Bullshit. You lacerated my pride and hurt my feelings, and you know it.”
He gave her the James Bond look.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“All right, darlin’, you win.”
Why did that scare her?
“I am very sorry I hurt you.” He stepped close…
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About the author:
Mimi Riser is a multi-published author of fiction and nonfiction, including several series and spanning a variety of genres. Her books celebrate the upbeat and the offbeat, and “happy endings” are her specialty. An American with Celtic genes, she began life in the urban northeast, but now resides in the rural southwest with her best friend (and husband) Rob. Oh, and she just happened to visit Galway back in 1975 when she was Sharon’s age, which is partly how this book came about. She didn’t meet a Rory while she was there, but she still fell in love—with Ireland.
https://www.mimiriser.com
ALSO BY MIMI RISER:
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The Kitchen Witch Everyday Magic Book
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