Mulligan Stew (36 page)

"Yes, you did." Relief swept through her and she sighed. "And you said 'Bronagh' again."

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Did I say anything else?" He bent down to retrieve her hard hat and handed it to her.

"You don't remember?"

He clenched his jaw so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Do
you
remember taking off your clo—"

"No. I don't." Bridget looked around to ensure they were still alone. "Okay. So you're saying something... happened to you?"

"Something."

"That seems to be the word of the day." Bridget rolled her eyes and flashed him a grin that actually made him grin in return. Mercy, but she loved the man's smile. It sort of made her insides feel like they were filled with warm, peppery red-eye gravy. "You did say other things."

"What?" Concern etched itself across his handsome face.

She drew a deep breath and held his gaze, though she wanted to jump his bones. "You said, 'I want you,' and something about... naked."

Lust flared in his eyes again and he nodded. "Well, I
do
want you—preferably naked." He grinned again, but this one was devilish and filled with both threats and promises. "I don't think that's much of a secret anymore."

A volcano erupted inside Bridget. "Have mercy."

"
No
mercy." He reached out and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I want you, Bridget, and you want me. There's no sense denying it."

"I... I reckon there's no sense in doing anything about it either." She bit her lower lip and looked away, but he cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward.

"Look at me."

She blinked and brought her gaze back to his. What she found in the depths of his eyes ripped away every shred of reserve and made her want to tear off her clothes along with it. She wanted to throw herself wantonly at his feet and beg him to take her.

Now. Hard. Fast.

"There are things going on here we don't understand." He looked around the chamber, then back to her. "Yet."

Bridget nodded, pinned by his probing gaze.

"Like why I've called you Bronagh here more than once."

"It
is
a name," she said. "I just knew it. A woman named Sorrow."

Riley arched a brow, obviously surprised by her knowledge. "Maggie again?"

"Yes." Bridget drew a shaky breath. "And she also told me what happened to your daddy, because I asked. Don't be angry with her."

Riley's swift indrawn breath sounded like the recoil of someone who'd been stabbed. Guilt niggled at her, but she gathered her resolve and squared her shoulders.

"You can't go on the rest of your life pretending it didn't happen," she said firmly, though not unkindly. Granny had always said the best way to handle upsetting things was to just get it all out before it festered into an infection. Riley was way past that. "And you can't be positive your daddy didn't die just because it was his time."

Riley's scowl returned, but it was directed beyond Bridget—at something or someone only he could see. "I don't know. I just don't know."

Bridget shook her head, wanting desperately to help Riley heal. The little boy who'd been hurt so long ago needed to face this before the grown Riley could recover. She understood this so clearly it astounded her.

He would have to talk it through, and, sadly, relive that dreadful day. That was the only way to put it in the past where it belonged.

Not his memories of his daddy, but of the man's tragic death.

What better way to do that than for Bridget to prove the curse didn't exist? Yes, there was some kind of power or magic here, but she refused to believe it evil. Empowered, she smiled and cupped Riley's cheek in her hand, brushing the pad of her thumb gently along the lower curve of the dark circles under his eyes.

Caisleán Dubh
's whispering encircled them, seeming to urge Bridget to go farther, touch more, take more. Oh, she wanted to, but now wasn't the time. However, for the first time, she believed there might actually be a time for them to follow passion's lead. Someday.

Soon, Bronagh,
he'd said.

There was a reason he'd called her by that name. The only way to find out was to learn who Bronagh was. Or had been... Bridget didn't believe in ghosts. But she believed in spirits, after a fashion. She'd gone to a couple of seances with Granny at Widow Harbaugh's farm back in Tennessee. The widow had summoned her late husband's spirit, then she'd proceeded to give him what-for about something he'd hidden before he died.

Bridget hadn't heard the old man talk to his widow, but the woman sure as heck had believed it. After she'd come out of the weird trance where she'd ranted and raved at her dead husband, Mrs. Harbaugh simply rose and walked to a bookcase where she opened an old Bible to a particular chapter and verse. Right there, she found the deed she'd accused her dead husband of hiding.

The other women had called it "amazing" or the "work of the Lord." Granny had called it "horse hockey," but Bridget didn't think so. She tended to agree with those who'd called it amazing. Of course, she'd only been about ten years old at the time.

The same age Riley had been when he'd dragged his daddy's dead body out of this castle.

"Well, I think we've seen enough," Mr. Kelley said as he and his crew came down the staircase.

Bridget dropped her hand to her side and paid particular attention to the man directly behind Mr. Kelley. He trailed his hand along the banister all the way down. He seemed fine. Whatever power lurked in that banister was apparently reserved just for Bridget.

Lucky me.

"What's up there?" she asked, forcing her attention back to the castle.

"Bedchambers on the next level, which is unusual, but we've already seen that
Caisleán Dubh
is one of a kind."

Bedchambers.
Bridget swallowed hard, remembering her dreams.

"Higher in the tower, there are other bedchambers, sitting rooms, and places where they kept watch and even shot arrows during times of war."

"Ireland has seen more than its share of that," Riley said on a sigh.

"Aye." Mr. Kelley looked around the main hall again.

"And what do you think of
Caisleán Dubh
now?" Riley asked, turning his attention to the inspector. "Is this pile of rocks ready for demolition?"

"Hardly." Mr. Kelley seemed offended.

So was Bridget. Clenching her teeth, she prepared to lambast Riley.

"Mr. Mulligan,
Caisleán Dubh
is a treasure." Mr. Kelley adjusted his glasses again and brushed dust off his jacket. "Aye, it's definitely worthy of restoration and registration as an Irish historic landmark. And, I believe, for a grant from the Irish Trust."

Bridget's heart sang. She grabbed Riley's hand and made a sound that closely resembled a squeal of delight. She didn't care that her behavior might seem childish. This was just the news she'd wanted to hear.

"Mrs. Mulligan seems to understand the significance of our findings."

"Aye. Bridget understands." Riley sighed and folded his arms across his abdomen. "As do I."

Bridget mouthed a yes and crossed her fingers. The men filed out with plans to have food and a pint or two at Gilhooley's, leaving their boss behind to go over their findings with the Mulligans. Bridget invited Mr. Kelley up to the cottage for a late lunch.

She
would
have her restaurant, and if the grants Mr. Kelley had mentioned came through, she wouldn't have to beg or borrow to do it. She wanted to start
now
, but of course the construction would have to be done first.

Best of all, Riley was coming out of the shell he'd built around his heart all those years ago. He wasn't ready to admit it, but Bridget sensed it. He'd withdrawn again momentarily, but he would come around.

And she would find out who the devil Bronagh was, so she could decide how to deal with her dream lover.

Awake and asleep.

* * *

Riley climbed the stairs to his bedroom, so exhausted he could barely breathe. The decision had been made after hours of family discussion.

Hadn't he shocked them all by siding with Bridget? Jaysus, but no one was more shocked than he.

It was time. Past time. The Mulligans would reclaim
Caisleán Dubh
—their ancestral home. Their heritage. Jacob's birthright.

Aye, Bridget would have her Mulligan Stew—and hadn't they all been surprised by the name she'd chosen for her restaurant? Mr. Kelley had assured her the grants would be forthcoming, and the construction necessary to make the main level useable would be completed this summer. Reinforcements on the tower would commence simultaneously for safety's sake. By fall, she could open her restaurant.

Riley was running out of time. He could have stopped everything with one word, but he hadn't. He'd allowed the plans to commence, and now he had a curse to end or a mysterious spell to break.

He would see Brady tomorrow and learn what the old man had discovered in Kilmurray. The truth was all Riley asked. Nothing more. How could the spell, if there was one, be broken? What was Bronagh's last name?

And
why
did Riley keep calling Bridget by her name?

Sleep, Mulligan.
He was off his nut from lack of it. Tonight, he would surrender to Morpheus. He managed to miss the low beam on the stairs, for once, and staggered into his room. He stripped to the skin and climbed beneath the quilt.

Let the bloody dreams come.
He was too tired to fight. Too tired...

She came to him again, as he'd known she would. She sneaked into his bedchamber and slid the bolt into place. He watched through veiled lashes as she slipped off her robe and left it in a puddle at her feet. Slowly, purposefully, she walked toward him.

Her breasts were high and full, their tips drawn to tight peaks to tempt a man. Her waist was slight enough for him to encircle with his hands, flaring to nicely rounded hips. His gaze rested at the dark, curling hair between her creamy thighs, and he sighed.

He would keep her here in his bed until dawn, and she would give him more than he'd ever dreamed. How could he have known how much he would grow to love her? If only he could make his da understand.

But he was promised to another. Bronagh knew the truth, yet she still loved him. Still gave him her heart and her body. He would marry a woman of his da's choosing. Their families' lands would be joined from their union. But his heart would forever belong to the woman who now offered herself to him so sweetly. So completely.

He shoved back the covers and she slid in beside him, her skin cool against his warmth. Without words, she covered his mouth with hers, burying her slender fingers in his hair, pressing her silken flesh against his length. How could a man want so much and not perish?

And how could he turn her away to marry another?

"Bronagh," he whispered as she kissed her way down his abdomen to the part of him that throbbed with a longing only she could fulfill. She took him with her mouth, making him shudder beneath her.

She reached between his legs, cupped him, and he groaned. A moment later, he grabbed her forearms and pulled her away before he exploded too soon. He wanted to be deep inside her when that happened. He wanted to feel her tiny body stretch to take his. He wanted to make her beg for her own release, as she made him beg now.

She hovered over him and he filled his hands with her breasts, laving them with his tongue, savoring her unique flavor. He had never wanted a woman more—never loved a woman as he loved her. Aye, love. And he would soon be trapped in a loveless marriage. Bronagh would be lost to him forever.

He could ask her to be his mistress, but it seemed so wrong. She was so much more to him than that. For them, it had to be everything or nothing.

He banished the sadness and thought only of this night and the time they had left to them. She teased his engorged body with the hot, slick folds of her womanhood. Taking the tip of him inside her, she leaned forward to tempt his lips with her breasts. She'd been an innocent the first time they'd come together, but now she was a woman who knew how to please and be pleased.

He took her nipple into his mouth and drew deeply, arching his hips toward heaven.

Riley tore the quilt off his bed and growled. He'd dreamed of Aidan—that had to be it. It must have been from seeing the man's portrait today. It couldn't be anything else. Could it?

"
Shite
." He bolted out of bed and drained his water glass. The clock told him he'd been asleep for hours, so at least he'd slept some.

He glanced down at his erection. Well, some of him had rested.

He paced the room, knowing he would get no more rest this night. After pulling on his clothes, he slipped down the back steps and out the door. A fine mist fell, cooling his burning skin within seconds.