Nell (22 page)

Her words, soothing as balm to his bruised spirit, worked their magic. She had always been a clever little miss, naive in many ways but older than her years in others. He'd missed her during those prison years. God, how he'd missed her. His mind called up images of tanned legs and sun-streaked hair, of ocean-green eyes and a mouth made for far more than kissing.

The fire with its burning turf and the expensive liquor loosened his tongue and did strange things to his brain. “I waited for you,” he mumbled against her shirt. “I waited until you married first. Then I stopped waiting.”

Jillian frowned and continued to stroke his head, separating the fine black hair between her fingers. He was hallucinating, and it wasn't about Colette.

“It's too late now,” he continued. “The day Colette was shot, I should have told her how much she meant to me. But I was afraid she'd think I said it out of pity. She thought there was someone else, someone I couldn't get out of my mind.” He laughed raggedly and lifted his head. “Can you imagine it, Jilly? Ten years married, and the woman never heard the words
I
love
you
from her own husband. What kind of arrogant bastard wouldn't say three wee words to make her happy?”

Her childhood name on his lips undid her. Jillian pressed her face against his shoulder, allowing the tears to stream unchecked down her cheeks. “She knew you loved her,” she murmured. “A woman doesn't need the words when a man comes home to her every evening, when he wakes every morning in the same bed and looks with pride on the children they made together. Colette knew you loved her, Danny. I saw it on her face. I saw it on both your faces this morning when I came to wish her well.”

Jillian remembered the husband she had recently buried and the blandness of her own farce of a marriage. A fresh sob rose in her voice. She couldn't stop the words rushing from her lips. “Some women never know that kind of love. Because of what the two of you had together, Colette's life was sweeter than most.”

Their roles had reversed. Now he was comforting her. She had slipped to the floor. He pressed her head against his chest. His free hand roamed across her back, up and down her arms, kneading the muscles, touching the pressure points at her shoulders and the back of her neck, all the while murmuring in Irish, soothing, one-syllable words that she didn't understand.

For Jillian, it was sheer heaven to be held in his arms, even when it was only comfort that he offered. She strained closer and lifted her face to find air space. Her nose touched the line of his jaw. Her lips were the merest fraction of an inch from his throat. He smelled of tobacco and the cold Belfast night, a man's smell. She inhaled. Something was missing. If only she could get closer. Instinctively, her lips parted. The tip of her tongue grazed the cord of his neck, sipping at a drop of perspiration, before retreating quickly.

Frankie froze. Was he losing his mind, or had he felt her tongue on his neck? Inside his chest, his heart thundered. Carefully, he pulled away and looked down into her face. Her eyes were closed, her face swollen with tears. He released his breath. Poor lass. Her own husband had died less than two weeks ago. She needed comforting as desperately as he did, and reassurance that life continued, that she was still young and alive and desirable.

He recognized the force leaping to life within him. Desire had become his front line. Since Colette's paralysis, he'd waged a constant and frustrating battle between the demands of his body and the strength of his character. This morning, in the operating room at the Royal Victoria Hospital, the battle was finally laid to rest.

If this woman were someone else, someone who had no hold on his heart or his past, he would have gladly and guiltlessly assuaged the ache of a two-year abstinence. He would have threaded his fingers through her hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her, sweetly at first and then hungrily, with all the repressed passion that years of denial had compounded. He would have tasted her skin, undressed her slowly, pressed her back against the cushions, sucked her breasts, exploring with his hands and mouth until she vibrated and opened beneath him. And then he would have taken her, fondling, urging, driving, until all the pain, the anguish, the regret, the mistakes, the false pride, and the pounding rage of an unfair, too early loss were swallowed up in his own release and in hers.

Then he would have wrapped up the son Colette had given him and disappeared with him down the streets of East Belfast, crossing the barricade to the west side of the city. The next time they met would be on opposite sides of a conference table, their eyes connecting coolly, never speaking or referring by manner or look to this night again, unless, by chance, they should have another wordless, emotionless, purely physical encounter.

For Frankie, whose formal education had been gleaned inside the walls of Long Kesh prison, class demarcations were as rigid as they had been a generation before. He had never known, within university walls, the easy intermingling of professionals with the educated sons and daughters of laborers. But neither was he uneducated.

Inside the cell blocks of Long Kesh, the Irish Republican Army rendered a stern disciplinary code. All prisoners were thoroughly immersed in the history, language, and political struggles of their country. Munitions experts were highly valued. An engineer could design an escape route, and a man who knew the periodic table could create a bomb. Mathematics, physics, and chemistry were cultivated, as were the humanities of poetry and journalism, the innately preferable disciplines of a race of storytellers.

Frankie Maguire knew his own abilities and had no difficulty debating the finest minds to be found in the United Kingdom. He was well aware that he was Jillian's equal in intellect, performance, and character. What he was not, or so he believed, was her social equal.

Because he would never sit beside her sharing the
craic
and listening to Irish music, or walk through Falls Park holding her hand, because they would never drink a pot of tea together in O'Doul's café or throw their laundry into the same washing machine, because the curbstones on her side of Belfast were painted red, white, and blue, and most of all, because she was the lord's daughter and he was the kennel keeper's son, he could never offer her what he would have offered a woman from his own class, whether it be friendship, sex, or something between or beyond the two, no matter how his body burned for a woman.

When her weeping had stopped, he set her away from him gently and leaned back against the cushions, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, she was kneeling by the fire, her face averted, throwing pieces of dried turf into the flames. Tactfully, he waited for her to speak first.

“It's cold outside. We've enough spare rooms to accommodate a houseful. Will you allow Connor to stay here for the night?”

He noticed that she didn't ask him to stay. “Connor has never been away from home before. He might be confused when he wakes and finds himself in strange surroundings.”

He watched her take a deep breath as if to gather herself. Then she turned to look at him. “You're welcome to stay with him if you like.”

Frankie hesitated. Normally, he would have refused, but he had never felt more miserable in his life. The thought of traveling the deserted streets of Belfast, fending off questions at the barricade, and walking into a cold, empty flat that would never again be warmed by Colette's presence was more than he could manage. “You are very kind,” he said formally. “Thank you.”

Jillian made up the bed herself, fluffing pillows, smoothing sheets, turning the electric blanket to warm while Frankie waited downstairs. When the room was ready, she leaned over the railing and called to him softly. She watched while he carried Connor, still sleeping, up the stairs and tucked him into the large bed. The child curled himself into a fetal position and wedged his thumb between his teeth. She bit her lip and blinked back another bout of tears.

“I'll stay here with him,” she heard Frankie say.

Interpreting his words as her dismissal, she stammered a brief good night and left the room.

Later, after she'd bathed, changed into her nightgown, and pulled her own blankets around her, a tiny shard of envy warmed her cheeks and kept her awake. Her heart ached for Connor Browne and the pain he would face tomorrow. But tonight, his small body was curled up against his father's. He would feel the beat of a man's heart, the heat of his skin, the comfort of a human breath against his cheek.

Jillian, alone in her elegant four-poster, wondered what it would be like to share her bed with a man, to shape her body to the length of his, to feel hard muscle and rough hair, to fit her head beneath his chin and feel his hands slide beneath her gown, touching places no man had ever touched before.

Pressing her fist against her mouth, she abruptly sat up and reached for the bottle of pills her physician had prescribed after Avery's death. She swallowed one and leaned back against the pillows, ashamed of her thoughts. Frankie Maguire, the man, was too attractive. He was also the chief negotiator for Sinn Fein, her adversary. “Colette,” she whispered into the darkness, “if only you had told me.”

They came downstairs together, the black-haired man and his rosy-cheeked son. Jilly was in the kitchen pouring orange juice into glasses. She looked up to see them framed in the doorway. Her eyes met Frankie's, and she knew he hadn't told Connor of his mother's death.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” the boy replied. “Is that breakfast?”

Jillian laughed. “Part of it.” She nodded toward the woman at the stove. “Mrs. Wilson is making the rest. Say hello to her, and then I'll show you to the breakfast room. Casey will be down soon.”

“Hello, Mrs. Wilson,” said Connor dutifully.

The housekeeper flashed a broad smile at him. “Why, hello, Connor. Did y' sleep well?”

“Aye.” He nodded solemnly. “I don't want to go home, but Da says we must.”

“Well, then, I'll hurry and serve this breakfast. Run along now, so your da can bring you back again soon.”

Connor lifted serious blue eyes to his father's face. “Can we come back, Da?”

Frankie hesitated. “We'll see,” he said, no match for the hopeful look on his son's small face. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wilson,” he said politely, before following Jillian out of the room.

Casey was already at the table eating a slice of buttered toast. She stopped chewing, and her eyes widened when she saw Frankie. “How do you do, sir?” she said after Jillian had completed the introductions.

“I've been better,” said Frankie, shaking her hand and smiling warmly, “but thank you for asking. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“You, too, sir,” Casey said eagerly. “I've heard a great deal about you.”

Frankie grinned. “I hope you'll still sit down with me, lass.”

Her eyes twinkled. “The nationalist cause is a popular one at Trinity.”

“It's more popular at Queen's.”

“My mother teaches there.”

Frankie lifted his eyebrows. “I see.”

Casey laughed. “Mum and I do well together, Mr. Browne. My father was a well-known face here in Belfast. He thought it would be easier for me if I weren't so conspicuous.”

Frankie looked at her curiously. “Is it comfortable for a Protestant at Trinity?”

She considered his question. “I wouldn't know. There are very few Protestants at Trinity. Religion isn't all that important in Dublin. It's more so here in Belfast.”

He settled Connor in a chair opposite Casey's before taking his own seat beside him. Something didn't make sense. His mind leaped to the obvious question, but he couldn't bring himself to ask it, not after Jillian's hospitality.

As if she read his mind, Jillian voiced what he couldn't ask. “Casey was raised in the Catholic faith. My husband and I adopted her shortly after we married.”

Frankie frowned. Avery Graham's history was well documented. He was a Protestant, descended from Scots plantation immigrants imported by the Tudors to Ireland in the early seventeenth century. The Fitzgeralds had converted when Henry VIII threatened all who remained loyal to Rome with the executioner's ax. Why had two staunch Protestants allowed their daughter to remain Catholic?

Mrs. Wilson entered the room carrying two trays piled high with eggs, bacon, and sausage. She smiled at Connor. “Here we are, laddie. Food enough for a growing boy.”

For Jillian, the meal was a surprisingly pleasant one. Frankie Maguire had beautiful manners and a way with words. He was also very comfortable with children. The teasing comments he exchanged with Casey, the way he managed to tousle Connor's hair or caress his cheek while passing the butter and winking across the table at Jillian, filled her with wonder. She had never seen a man so easy and so generous with his affection. The children blossomed and ate and laughed until she felt as if her heart would burst with contentment.

She caught herself staring at him, focusing on the way he formed his words, at the competent way he cleared his plate, sugared his tea, buttered his toast. Across the table, their eyes met and locked. Gray eyes, square chin, black hair. She swallowed and looked away.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Graham. Connor and I will be going now.”

Jillian nodded and stood. “Casey and I will see you out.” Connor reached for her hand and held it as they crossed the lawn to the car. She knelt down to hug him before he climbed in beside Frankie.

“Please let me know when you've settled the arrangements. I would like to pay my respects,” she said.

“It wouldn't be a good idea,” Frankie said tersely. “You're too public a figure to be visitin' the west side.”

“Nevertheless, I shall be there,” said Jillian firmly. She squeezed Connor's hand.

Casey spoke from behind her. “Come back whenever you like, Connor. Mrs. Wilson always has cookies.”

Connor looked at his father and then back at Jillian before nodding solemnly.

“I think he likes you, Mum,” pronounced Casey as they walked back toward the house.

Jillian followed Casey through the door and closed it behind them. “He's so adorable with those blue eyes and rosy cheeks. I can't resist him.”

Casey widened her eyes innocently. “I wasn't talking about Connor.”

“Cassandra!” Jillian looked horrified. “How can you say such a thing? The man lost his wife yesterday.”

Casey crossed her arms and leaned against the banister. “I understand that, and I'm sorry for him. But she was ill for a long time. I'm not suggesting that anything happened between you. I merely noticed that he enjoyed your company. There's nothing wrong with that.” She did not add that any fool could see that Danny Browne hadn't been able to take his eyes off Jillian the entire morning.

“What are your plans for today?” Jillian asked.

“I'm taking a nap,” said Casey, continuing up the stairs. “It's an indecent hour for people to be awake.”

***

The funeral was an enormous one, even by West Belfast standards. Apparently, Colette had been well liked. Jillian, dressed in gray flannel with a scarf over her hair, stood in the back of the church, staring at Frankie's broad shoulders in the front row. Connor was in his arms, and a young, fair-haired man stood by his side.

She did not file past the open coffin with the rest of the congregation, nor did she wait in the long receiving line after mass to speak to Frankie. It was Connor who recognized her and darted through the crowd just as she was crossing the street to her car.

“Jilly!” he cried, running after her, his shrill, childish voice breaking through the controlled murmurs and hushed condolences of the mourners. “Jilly, stop. 'Tis Connor. Please, stop. I want to come with you.”

She stopped immediately and waited for the little boy to reach her. He threw himself against her knees and clung.

Jillian knelt, gathered him into her arms, and hugged him fiercely. Casey had been just this size when Jillian had first seen her.

Frankie was shaking hands with Father Doyle when his son's voice pierced the quiet, crying out a name that had never failed to stop him in his tracks.
Jilly.
His eyes followed Connor's small figure as he dodged through the milling crowd and into the arms of a slim, elegant woman who most definitely did not belong in West Belfast.

Abruptly cutting off the priest's condolences with the barest of civilities, Frankie crossed the street to where Jilly waited with his son. Connor was crying with great hiccupping sobs. “Mam is gone, and I won't see her again. I don't want to stay with Mrs. Flynn. Can I come home with you?”

“Hush, love.” Jillian's soothing voice brought back a flood of Frankie's forgotten memories. “Don't cry, my darling. It will be all right. I promise it will.” A shadow blocked the sun. She looked up into Frankie Maguire's veiled gray eyes.

“You don't belong here, Jillian.”

Jillian stood and smiled cheerfully. “Climb into the car while I talk to your da, Connor.”

“Connor stays with me,” Frankie said through tight lips.

Jillian's eyes blazed. “For heaven's sake, Mr. Browne. What's the harm in allowing him to ride with me? I'll follow you home.”

She'd cried in his arms, and he was still Mr. Browne. Frankie lifted Connor against his chest. “Mrs. Flynn is waiting for us, lad.”

“I want to go home with Jilly.”

Frankie hesitated. “She can drive you home, but that's all,” he said at last, setting the child on his feet.

He waited until the door was safely shut before gripping Jillian's arm. “Do y' have any idea how dangerous it is to be here? We've two weeks before the Orangemen march down Garvaghy Road, and you and your Protestant friends still haven't reached a decision. This isn't a tea party, Mrs. Graham,” he said brutally. “Leave the Falls immediately. They'll lynch you given enough provocation, and I won't be able t' do anything t' protect you.”

She stared at him, riveted by the accent that came back to him when he was angry. She wet her lips. “Stormont meets again on Thursday. I'll be at Kildare Hall until then. Let Connor come home with me.”

“Connor stays with me. I want him safe.”

“Belfast isn't safe,” Jillian argued. “Kilvara has never been part of the troubles. He'll be safer with me.”

“No.”

“You're being completely unreasonable because you dislike me,” she said furiously. “Connor doesn't want to stay here. Kildare is beautiful. There are dogs and horses and forests and pastures.” She was babbling, but she didn't care. “It's a wonderful place for a small boy. Colette would have agreed with me. You know she would.”

Frankie stared at her. For an instant, he was reminded of the girl who once ran wild through the fertile pastureland of County Down. “I don't dislike you,” he said slowly. “Where did you come up with an idea like that?”

She shrugged, suddenly close to tears.

He reached out, remembered where he was, and withdrew his hand. He was silent for a long time. Then he sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “If you can delay your journey, I'll bring him around tomorrow morning. It wouldn't look right for him to leave today.”

Weak with relief, Jillian sagged against the car. “Shall I bring him home now?”

“Aye. Follow me. Drop him off in front of the house, and don't leave the car.”

She slid behind the wheel and smiled shakily at Connor. “Tomorrow you'll come to the country with me. Would you like that?”

Connor nodded. “Will Da be comin' with us?”

“Perhaps,” said Jillian, as though the thought had never occurred to her. “We'll invite him and see what he says.”

Tim Sheehan slid into the passenger seat beside his stepfather. “Where's Connor?” he asked.

“A friend is driving him home. She's coming up behind us now.”

Tim looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening in disbelief at the make and model of Jillian's automobile. “Who is she?”

“Jillian Graham,” Frankie said shortly. “The Northern Irish minister's widow.”

Tim stared at Frankie. “How do you know her?”

“She called on your mother in the hospital.”

“Why was she at the funeral?”

Frankie shrugged. “Your mother and Mrs. Graham were friends.”

Tim laughed bitterly. “Hardly.”

“It's true. Colette told me herself.”

Stroking his forehead, Tim stared out his window. The gray afternoon matched his mood. It wasn't enough that he had buried his mother. He had yet to tell the only father he had ever known that instead of returning to Trinity, he was now a recruit in the Belfast Brigade of the Irish Republican Army. Topping off his misery was the memory of a small heart-shaped face he would most likely never see again, and behind them, his brother was cozying up with a woman who would just as soon see him behind the walls of Long Kesh prison as speak to him.

Frankie glanced at his stepson. “Your mam was proud of you, Tim.”

The boy shrugged.

Frankie continued. “She always said an education was a grand thing. You're a clever lad. I hope Connor—”

“Don't, Da,” Tim interrupted him. “I'm not goin' back.”

Frankie frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I'm not going back to university. I've joined up.”

White knuckles showed through the brown of Frankie's hands. He forced himself to speak calmly. “Joined what?”

“The IRA.”

Long minutes passed as Frankie negotiated a right turn and waited for the light. “It's not a wise decision, lad.”

“It's what you did.”

“Which is why I can speak from experience and tell you it's not the way.”

“I want the Brits out, Da. My mother's dead because of the bloody bastards.”

“We're close, Tim. Both sides are tired of the killing. This time we'll reach an agreement. But even if we don't, a man doesn't join the IRA for revenge. Your mother wouldn't have wanted it for you. She hated it for me, and she'd hate it even more for you.”

Tim stared moodily out the side window.

“Think about it,” urged Frankie. “Don't do anything yet. Wait a month. See how you feel.”

“I can't promise anything.”

Frankie parked the car and watched the steady flow of mourners make their way into Mrs. Flynn's flat. The woman had been kind enough to prepare a proper wake for Colette, something he had completely forgotten about. “Save it for another day, Tim,” Frankie advised the boy. “Today I want you to remember your mother the way she was.”

Tim wiped the wet from the corners of both eyes and nodded. Suddenly, it was all too much, and the words he wanted to say had left him.

It was nearly nine the next morning when Frankie swung his car into the circular driveway of the town house on Lisburn Road. Jilly swallowed and glanced into the mirror in the entry before opening the door and stepping outside. Connor leaped out of the car and up the stairs while Frankie followed.