Irish Lady (12 page)

She moved so that they shared the same breath. “Aye,” she whispered. “I can do it. I want to do it.” Closing the space between their lips, she opened her mouth and kissed him, drawing him in, holding him inside until the room dipped and swirled and he wondered where he would find the strength to walk back to the cottage.

Meghann barely felt the cold. Michael's arm was tight about her shoulders while hers was under his parka, wrapped around his waist. Their strides matched easily, comfortably, as if they had walked arm in arm together for a lifetime, stopping occasionally to touch and kiss and reassure themselves that they were still of the same mind.

Clouds hid the moon, and the house was completely dark when they arrived. Michael cursed under his breath as he fumbled with the lock. Finally the key turned. He stepped inside, drawing Meghann with him, and closed the door. He heard the pounding of her heart, labored and shallow, as if she'd run a great distance, or perhaps it was his own that he heard. He couldn't be sure. Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her cheeks, her chin, her throat, and finally her mouth. He lifted his head and looked down at her face, shadowy and pale in the darkness. “You're not much t' carry,” he said softly, “but I don't think I can manage the stairs.”

She pressed her fingers against his mouth. “I'll walk.”

Michael took her hand and led her up the stairs into the room that had been his own for too long.

Meghann trembled, crossed her arms against her chest and watched him light the small gasoline lamp on the dresser. He removed his sweater and shirt and then turned to her. Wordlessly, she allowed him to gather her into his arms, to frame her face, to rain kisses across her mouth, her throat. And when she was no longer cold, she felt his hands slide beneath her sweater, rubbing her back, gliding over her stomach and tracing the swells of her breasts.

“God, Meggie,” he murmured, “I want you so. Tell me that you want me.”

She tried to speak and found that her voice had an airy, breathless quality, so that it came out in the barest whisper. “I want you so much that my legs won't work. It seems I've waited a lifetime to have you hold me again.”

More than satisfied with her answer, he lifted the sweater over her head, unclasped her bra and buried his face in the soft valley of her breasts. Within moments the rest of their clothing was discarded and they were in the large bed, the covers around them, their seeking mouths and fingers finding the pleasure spots that fifteen years and separate lives could not erase.

Meghann was on fire. The feel of his tight, hair-roughened body against hers left her trembling with a need she couldn't control. Instinctively, she brushed aside the orderly, cautious role she'd cast for herself and moved and spoke and responded as if she'd been handed a whole new identity. For the first time she understood the enormity of what she'd given up and the sweet, stabbing pain of it filled her. Her only relief was to press closer, burying herself in the heat of his skin, his smell, the urgency of his hands caressing her body.

The clouds disappeared and moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating Michael's face and chest as he moved over her, stroking and kissing, murmuring words she never thought to hear from him again. Meghann reached up to run her fingers across his broad shoulders and chest, the column of his throat, the square Irish chin, and the sharp bones of his cheeks. His eyes, clear and colorless in the moonlight, framed by the sooty lashes she had envied as a girl, were filled with a need that left her trembling. Despite the pains she had taken on his haircut, the same unruly shock that would never be tamed fell across his forehead. She brushed it back. It fell again. Weaving her fingers through the thick straightness, she pulled his head to her breast. When he slid his tongue down the generous slope, Meghann closed her eyes, giving herself up to wave after wave of undiluted sensation.

Surely it had never been like this, the searing heat, the curious throbbing, the delicious, building tension, a hard mouth gone soft with tenderness, and lean callused hands reverently caressing her body as if it were delicate crystal. How could she possibly have given up this priceless pleasure for something so insignificant as peace and sanity? Meghann knew as surely as she drew breath that after tonight there would be no peace for her in all the world.

Michael was hard and hurting with the strength of his desire. He'd meant to hold out and prolong the end of their lovemaking for as long as possible. Something told him that after tonight she would leave, as much because of what was happening between them as her need to get on with his defense. If this was their last night, he wanted her to remember it.

But the wait had already been too long. He had always been too immersed in his work to become seriously involved with a woman. The immorality of beginning a relationship he had no intention of culminating with a marriage proposal stopped him every time. Meghann was his first and last love, his only love. He wanted her, only her.

The flame inside him heightened. Her legs parted and he slid into her. It was impossible to wait any longer. The moment she arched beneath him he was lost, swept away in the undertow of his own raging current. Moving with its flow, he reached for breath, straining to imprint the rush on his brain, to store, bring out, and savor when the nights were long again, this exquisite, mind-absorbing sensation. Time swelled, extending the peak, encapsuling the weightless floating descent until the last surge had settled into a relaxation so absorbing it bordered on unconsciousness. Too exhausted for speech, Michael folded her into his arms, pressed her face into his shoulder and slept.

Meghann stared at the ceiling, wide awake and terrified of losing the power of what they had shared. What if she couldn't save him? What if information was kept hidden in files to which she had no access, as in the Guildford case? How could she go on living if her defense wasn't successful and Michael was sentenced to life without parole?

In a blinding flash of clarity, she realized what had lain dormant within her for nearly a lifetime. She still loved Michael Devlin. She had always loved him, ever since that dreadful night on Cupar Street when her family was killed by British tanks and plastic bullets, the night Michael had reached out into the night and pulled her to safety.

For years she had waited for him to notice that she was more than a child, and when he did, she was ready. Even at fifteen she had known how to widen her eyes, to lower her voice, to swing her hair across her shoulders, to lean against him as if she had no idea how the feel of her skin, the scent of her soap, and the curve of her virginal breast pressing against his shoulder affected him. When his voice hoarsened and the blue of his eyes became too intense for her to meet his gaze, when his conversation stopped abruptly and a dark flush rose in his cheeks, Meghann closed her eyes and leaned toward him.

Finally, after what had seemed an interminable wait, she had known what it was to feel his mouth on hers, to feel his arms close around her and to open to the gentle demand of his tongue. Her time had come. Michael Devlin wasn't a womanizer. When he claimed her, he had intended it to be forever. What she hadn't known was how long forever could be.

***

Dawn in Donegal was as close to heaven as anything worldly could possibly be. Varying hues of violet, peach, silver, and pink steadily encroached across the indigo sky. Clouds, wispy and veiled as Irish lace, muted the onslaught of a still wintry sun, and gulls circled above, dark against the morning light. The tide was low, and thousands of scurrying water creatures scrambled for survival in the sucking, sun-stained sand. No wonder stories of leprechauns flourished in western Ireland. It seemed to Meghann, as she stood staring out the kitchen window, that the entire coastline was caught in the rays of a rising sun.

She had slept little, and when it was obvious she would sleep no more that night, she had pulled on jeans and a long sweater, slipped on wool socks and walked down to the kitchen to put on the teakettle. It was time to leave Donegal. If she waited any longer she would be unable to work on Michael's defense. She was already far more emotionally involved with her client than an attorney should ever be. If she stayed even another day there was the possibility that her bias would cause her to miss important clues, to place emphasis on details that had little value when placed before a jury. Clear, cold purpose with the right measure of professional courtesy impressed juries, not emotional rhetoric.

Meghann did not think it was possible to sit in a courtroom and listen to the Crown accuse Michael of unspeakable acts without a certain level of emotionalism. She only hoped it wouldn't jeopardize his defense. It would be much better to leave now, when she could still think rationally, when time had dulled the edges of what they had found in Donegal. She would tell him today, after breakfast.

Somehow he knew without speaking. He came down the stairs, blue-jeaned and bare-chested, with his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes, disturbingly blue, pierced through her defenses, and she couldn't wait for breakfast. She told him immediately, truthfully, without further pretense. “I'm leaving, Michael. If I stay any longer I won't be of any help to you.”

He pinned her to the sink by placing both arms on either side of her. “All right, Meggie. But I want you t' know this. If things work out for me, I'll be in your debt for the rest of my life. Don't forget that. Ask for anything and I'll do it.” His face was very near, his eyes intent and serious. “I want you back in Belfast. Maybe when you realize what defending me really means, what you'll face when it's over, you'll reconsider. If I'm found guilty, understand that I won't hold you responsible. I never wanted you involved in the first place.”

Not one word of love or even of wanting. Nothing personal. It was over, their stolen moments together. What had he said that smoke-filled, gasoline-fumed night on Cupar Street?
Breathe.
She breathed and her heart slowed. “I couldn't have watched it from the sidelines,” she said. “This way I know that if it doesn't work out, it won't be for lack of trying.”

His hands moved up and down her shoulders. Something was bothering him. She waited, completely still under his touch. Finally he spoke. “Do y' still love me, Meggie?”

Again Meghann held her breath. A lie or the truth. The lie would save her pride. The truth would cleanse her soul. This might be the last time she ever saw him alone. “I'm surprised you had to ask,” she said softly. “Yes, Michael, I still love you. I love you so much that I want a part of you to take away, something of you that I can mold and fit into my life.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders. His smile made her chest ache.

“There was a time when I offered y' much more than a part of me,” he said softly. “Why now and not then?”

“I don't know.” She knew he would deliberately ignore her message, just as she knew that she would insist he face it. “The point is, I don't care.” She held his gaze, forcing him to understand her meaning.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm thirty-five years old. In all that time I've never done anything so foolish as to make love without protection, except for the times I've been with you. What I'm saying should be obvious. I love you. I'll love you forever. I want to have children with you. I never stopped loving you.”

He didn't want to ask, nor did he care to hear her answer, but something inside him wouldn't let her leave without his knowing. “You were married for five years.”

“Yes.”

“Did you love him?”

Her eyes ached in their sockets. She desperately needed to blink. “Not at first. But I learned to. He was a dear man.”

His mouth thinned. “Why did y' do it? Was it the money?”

Meghann shook her head. “I needed his love and his power.”

“I don't believe that for a minute. You're hardly the type who thrives on controlling others.”

“You're wrong. All my life I've felt powerless. First there was Cupar Street and I was alone. Then you joined the IRA and again I was alone. At university it was assumed that I wouldn't do well because I was Irish, a woman, and alone. David offered me a job that would lead to a powerful position. Then he offered me his name, something no one could ever take away. His name gave me power. He promised to care for me, and I grew to care for him. Because he was older, I knew I would be alone again, but it wouldn't be the same this time.” Her hands were trembling. “Money and position bring such power, Michael. You can't imagine the difference between having and not having until you experience both. It's like nothing I've ever known. I'm never afraid because I'm safe. Can you imagine being Catholic from the Falls, and never being afraid again?”

His face was grim, his eyes cold. “No, I can't. Children born in the Six Counties are delivered head first into fear. Some grow up and leave. Some can't escape. The pain of leaving is worse than the price of staying. How can y' do it, Meggie? How can y' leave your country without looking back? Your education and talent could help us.”

“Like Peter Finucane, the lawyer with brothers in the IRA? They murdered him in front of his wife and children on Malone Street.”

“Peter was a friend of mine. His wife doesn't blame us.”

Meghann shook her head. “You don't understand anything about me. Countries aren't boundaries. Countries are people, Michael. Men, women, and children, who work and eat and sleep, people who live out the fabric of their lives just trying to survive. Boundaries mean nothing. We can go anywhere. Everyone will be the same.”

“If you believe that, how can you love me?”

He was so very dear, and his eyes were no longer cold. “How can I help it?” she whispered. “If ever I've felt passion and heartbreak and longing, it's been with you.” She pressed her palm against her chest. “You will always hold a piece of my heart, Michael Devlin. It will go to the grave with you.”

His thumb was on her chin, angling slowly, deliberately up her jawline and across her cheek until it touched the corner of her mouth. Meghann waited, life signs suspended, anticipating his next move. He lowered his head, and she felt the briefest touch of his lips on her throat, traveling a path marked by his fingers, down and across the shadowed hollow to the base of her throat. There he stopped, and she was aware of breathing, his or hers she couldn't tell, and a warm hand under her sweater, unsnapping her jeans, circling the spot below her navel that weakened her knees. Tangling his other hand in her hair, he pulled gently, turning her face up to the light. Bending his head to her mouth, he kissed her, claiming her with his lips and tongue and teeth, until she pulled away, desperate for air that wasn't his, air that would make her a separate person again.